ONLY  THE  GOVERNESS. 


BY 

ROSA  NOUCHETTE  CAREY. 


NEW  YORK: 
GEORGE  MUNRO'S  SONS,  PUBLISHERS, 

1?  TO  27  VANDEWATER  STREET. 


ONLY  THE  GOVERNESS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

DOSSEE. 

A  peck  of  March  dust  is  worth  a  king's  ransom. 

Old  Saying. 

IT  was  only  the  other  day  that  Launcelot  Chudleigh  came  upon  a 
half -finished  portrait  that  he  had  painted  of  Dossie  as  a  child.  He  was 
moving  some  large  dusty  portfolios  that  had  long  blocked  up  a  corner 
of  his  studio,  when  the  rotten  strings  of  one  gave  way,  and  out  tumbled 
a  miscellaneous  collection  of  hastily  drawn  sketches,  crude  studies, 
sunny  little  bits  of  scenery,  here  and  there  a  larger  piece  with  the  colors 
only  half  washed  in,  as  though  the  brush  had  been  flung  away  in  de- 
spair; groups  of  figures  with  no  particular  background,  a  gondola  float- 
ing in  a  very  hazy  sea,  an  Italian  peasant  with  a  Madonna"  face  and  the 
inevitable  large-eyed  babe  in  her  arms,  a  little  flower-girl  with  a  gay 
kerchief  on  her  head  and  a  string  of  brown  beads  round  her  neck. 
Launcelot  turned  them  all  over  with  a  droll,  humorous  smile.  He  was 
amused,  as  middle-aged  people  often  are  when  they  come  unexpectedly 
on  some  toy  or  relic  of  their  childhood.  Ah,  well!  he  had  been  young 
too,  like  other  people.  He  had  attempted  and  had  failed;  and,  of  course 
his  failures  had  seemed  pathetic  to  him,  Youth  seldom  finishes  what  it 
begins;  it  is  ready  to  set  the  world  on  fire  with  its  hasty  energy,  then 
comes  reality,  disappointment,  the  plain  prose  of  life. 

Launcelot  was  moralizing  over  his  sketches  when  one  fluttered  slowly 
to  his  feet.  He  uttered  an  exclamation  as  he  picked  it  up  and  brushed 
the  dust  off  it  very  tenderly. 

It  was  the  portrait  of  a  child,  but  not  a  pretty  child.  A  pale,  plaint 
ive  little  face,  shaded  by  soft  yellowish  hair;  the  mouth  was  grave  and 
unsmiling,  the  great  wistful  eyes  looked  at  one  rather  sadly.  "  What 
does  it  mean?"  they  seemed  to  ask,  and  the  droop  of  the  lids  seemed  to 
demand  the  same  question.  Under  it  was  written  t4  Dossie,  aged  ten." 

Launcelot  regarded  it  long  and  fixedly.  "  It  is  very  like  her  still,' 
he  murmured  to  himself.  "I  have  half  a  mind  to  finish  it  now;  it 
would  be  a  surprise  to  Dorothea.  I  wonder  if  she  would  recollect  it,  or 
Madella>  it  is  not  so  badly  done  after  all."  And  then  he  added,  after  a 
pause,  "  That  must  have  been  sketched  the  week  before  Jack  went 
away — poor  old  Jack!  how  well  I  remember  that  time. "  And  then  he 
sighed,  and  laying  the  picture  on  the  table  lie  restored  the  other  sketches 
to  the  portfolio 

It  was  a  gray  March  afternoon,  and  the  east  wind,  that  abomination 
to  ail  right  minded  Englishmen,  was  pia-yiruka^lr^jri  swnphony  on  the 


HE    <  «v 

I -art  of  If  •!  to  share  al    her  father's  likes 

andcualib  '  father  h  <ul  that  tlui  cast  u-;: 

him  foe.  :;Ntic  to  the  whole  world,     lie 

i  buttoned  up  and  shrug 

g:ng  hissinnild'  "  What,  a  dele-table  din. 

be  had  m  .  -  dust  whirling  down  the  white 

road       "  There,  run   in    '  Mrs.  Slater  that  she  must  not 

u  go  ou'r-  i  be  a  good  girl  and 

nelp  nic  p.rint  this  eveniu|  '.ick  Weston  waved"  his  hand  a; 

off  in  the  direction  of  I  ho  station. 

'  Father  alw:i  that,"  thought  Dossie,  as  she  closed  the  door 

went  back  '  na  looked  round  the  empty  room  a  little 

wistfully  I  am  u  good  gir  after  all?"    Another  long 

da\  to  be  spent  ail  alone — for  of  course  31  rs.  Slate:  would  be  to.  • 
tc  talk  to  her,  and  Nancy  would  be  hard  at  work,  too.     Nancy  \ 
be  black-leading  stoves   witb.  ratlin  a  smutty  face,  or  scrubbing  lloors. 
an'  Airs.  Slater,  with  floury  elbows  or  hands  whitened  with  hot. 
suds,  would  be  kneading  dijugh,  or  slamming  oven  doors,  or  wringing 
out  mysterious  long  wisps  that  resolved  tnemselves  into  stil]  more 
terious  garments 

It  wrould  be,  '  Go  away,  Miss  Dosie  dear,  for  the  place,  ain't  tit  for 
ycu  to  stand  upon,"  from  poor,  overworked,  good-humored  Nancy, 
tiial,  "  Run  away,  dearie,  do,  for  I  have  not  a  minute  hardly  to  draw*  a 
breath  in,"  from  the  equally  tasked  mistress  of  the  house. 

There  were  other  lodgers  in  No.  28  Wenvoe  Road  besides  Mr.  AY< 
dnd  his  little  daughter.     Another  artist  occupied  the  drawing  room  tl«io» 
—a  pallid  young  man  with  long  hair  and  a  seedy-  brown  v<  w  he 

had  lately  become  a  social  democrat,  and  spouted  for  the  hour  to- 
at  Tjablic  meetings  on  the  wrongs  of  the  working  classes     Jack  \\ 
never  held  any  intercourse  with  him,  he  always  wished  him  a  very  curt 
good  morning  when  they  encountered  each  other  on  the  stairs      1 1 
a  far  more  genial  nod  for  the  little  gray  headed  clerk  on,  the  upper  floor, 
in  spite  of  an  execrable  clarionet  with  which  he  tortured  his  neighbors. 
into  the  small  liourss  but  then  hs  always  said  Gregson  was  such  a  harm- 
less, hard  working  old  fellow,  and  never  gave  his  landlady  any  trouble, 
blacking  his  ownT)oots,  and  only  coming  home  to  tea,  and  never  com 
plaining  if  Nancy  forgot  to  fill  his  coal-scuttle  on  a  cold  winter's  night 
"  and  he  has  had  his  troubles  too.  poor  old  man,"  finished  .i 
had  a  soft  heart. 

Dossie  heaved  a  deep  sigh  as  she  looked  round  the  empty  room.     It 
was  a  very  pleasant  room  in  Bummer-time  when  the  folding-doors  weic 
open,  for  the  glass  door  led  into  a  small  garden,  but  just  now  it  had  ;* 
forlorn,  untidy  aspect.    The  breakfast  things  had  not  been  cleared  away 
from  the  round  table — Mrs.  Slater  arid  Nancy  were  too  busy  at  p 
-  the  only  cheerful  window  was  blocked  by  her  father's  easel,  the  couch 
and  half  the  chairs  were  littered  with  papers,  books,  and  a  het. 
mass  of  odds  and  ends;  the  lire,  which  had  been  ruthlessly  poked 
impatient  hand,   wa-   now   a  bed  of  red  cinders.      Portfolios,  pal 

isical   instruments,  coats  and   rugs  were  on  c 

able  article  of  furniture      I>ro\vn  spairows  were  chirping  and  picking  up 
the  crumbs  that  had  been  lavishly  strewn  for  them,  in  spite  of  the 
•mall  black  kitten  who  watched  them  through  the  . 


ONLY    TUK    GOVERNESS.  7 

actually  ono  pert  little  fellow  seemed  to  cock  his  head  at  her  in  a  know 
inu'  waV.  as  if  he  knew  that  she  could  not  reach  him.  How  was  Dossie 
through  her  long  solitary  day?  that  was  the  question  she  was  re- 
solving with  a  puckered  forehead  and  a  very  grave  face,  while  the  kit- 
ten patted  the  glass  with  soft,  velvety  paws,  and  the  sparrows  llew 
away.  There  was  the  room  to  tidy,  but  there  would  be  plenty  of  time 
for  that  before  father  came  home; 'it  was  no  use  learning  any  more  les- 
sons, as  he  had  not  heard  the  last,  and  she  had  finished  the  dusters  Mrs. 
Slater  had  given  her  1o  hem,  and  of  course  she  was  much  too  busy  to 
find  her  any  more  work. 

Never  mind,  she  would  get  on  with  her  writing  and  have  quite  a  long 
bit  to  show  her  father  in  the  evening.  How  he  did  laugh  over  it,  to  be 
sure.  She  had  been  rather  hurt  about  his  laughing  at  first,  until  he  had 
explained  to  her  very  kindly  that  it  was  only  the  idea  that  amused  him, 
and  that  really  he  was  very  much  pleased  with  the  whole  thing. 

There  was  no  empty  space  on  the  round  table  for  her  writing  mate- 
rials, so  Dossie  wedged  herself  in  with  some  difficulty  between  the  easel 
and  the  window:  there  was  a  nice  window-seat  there  that  opened  like  a 
box,  a  curious  contrivance  made  by  some  previous  lodger.  Here  Dossie 
kept  her  treasures— her  little  work-box  and  lesson-books,  and  childish 
odds  and  ends,  and  from  this  dusty  receptacle  she  triumphantly  pro- 
duced a  bundle  of  copy-books,  tied  together  with  blue  ribbon. 

Five  minutes  more  and  Dossie  had  forgotten  the  world,  the  east  wind, 
and  the  solitude  she  had  so  dreaded,  in  the  proud  delight  of  composi- 
tion. The  scratchy  pen  never  paused  as  Mrs.  Slater  cleared  the  break- 
fast things  and  made  up  the  fire.  "  Poor  little  soul!"  she  said  to  her- 
self as  wlie  bustled  out  of  the  room  with  the  tray,  "she  is  as  good  as 
gold.  Few  children  would  amuse  themselves  as  Miss  Dossie  does.  Bless 
her  little  heart!  She  is  making  believe  to  write  some  story,  I  expect. 
We  should  never  get  the  ink  off  her  hands  if  Nancy  had  not  bought 
that  pumice-stone." 

lju!  -  of  ink,  smudges,  erasures,  and  an  occasional  difficulty 

in  spelling  some  desirable  word,  Dossie  worked  on,  quite  oblivious  of 
lime,  ooly  pausing  to  stroke  the  kitten,  which  had  crept  into  her  lap  and 
-'irring  contentedly  in  that  warm  receptacle.  They  eat  their  din- 
ner together  in  gypsy  fashion,  for  Mrs.  Slater  never  troubled  to  spread 
a  cloth  for  Dossie  alone:  the  little  tray  was  placed  on  the  window-seat, 
and  by  and  by  Xancy  took  it  away  and  the  copy-books  were  replaced. 

"  I  am  getting  on  beautifully,  Nancy, "  exclaimed  Dossie,  with  a 
beaming  smile,  that  lighted  up  her  pale  little  face  like  a  ray  of  sun- 
Rhine.  "  If  I  take  great  pains  with  it,  perhaps  father  will  have  it  print- 
ed some  day." 

"Of  course  he  will,  Miss  Dosie,"  returned  Nancy,  stoutly;  "it  is 
quite  as  good  as  any  real  printed  book.  It  almost  made  me  cry,  it  did, 
the  other  night,"  And  this  flattering  testimony  to  the  intrinsic  worth 
of  her  work  was  an  immense  consolation  to  Dossie. 

Nancy's  value  as  a  critic  might  have  been  held  somewhat  cheaply  by 
either  people.  Her  childhood  had  been  spent  in  a  work-house,  a  place 
where  the  intellectual  activities  seldom  attain  rapid  growth;  neither  was 
the  position  of  maid-of-all-work— in  a  house  where  lodgers  are  kept — a 
perfectly  fortuitous  one  for  the  development  of  critical  acumen,  or  the 
faculty  of  nice  discrimination;  nevertheless,  Nancy's  sympathy  and  hon- 
est faith  were  great  sources  of  comfort  to  Dossie,  who  had  no  compau* 
ions  of  her  own  age. 

Sometimes  Dossie,  staring  wide  awake  into  the  darkness,  would  hear 


ONLY     ] 

Nancy  come  up  heavily  to  bed,  and  would  beg  her,  in  a  plaintive  \ 

with  her  n  littl>  never  refused;  however  tired  and  sleepy 

she  might  be,  she  would  sit  on  the  hard  uncomfortable  l>o\.  with  the 
tallow  candle  guttering  in  the  tin  candlestick,  wliile  Do— ie,  propped 
against  her  nest  of  pillow,  read  aloud  her  composition  in  a  voice  I  rein - 
Mini;  with  "I  call  it  beautiful,  Miss  Dosie,"  \ould 

murmur,  with  difficulty  Suppressing  a  yawn;  sometimes  her  head  would 
nod  drowsily  with  cold  and  fatigue,  but  she  alwa;  1  that  she 

had  heard  every  word. 

-ie  returned  to  her  labors  with  increased  alacrity  when  Nancy  had 
carried  away  the  luncheon-tray.     Her  hands  were  very  inky,  anil  slit- 
had  a  red  spot  on  either  cheek, "and  perhaps  she  felt  a  little  cramped  and 
sleepy,  but  what  did  that  all  matter?     But,  one  of  those  interruptions 
which  Hale  describes  as  "  a  breach,  or  break,  caused  by  the  abrupt  in- 
:tion  of  something  foreign,"  was  to  happen  to  the  small  author, 
for  at  that  moment  a  thin,  dark  young  man,  in  a  foreign-lookin.u 
coat  lined  with  fur,  was  standing  before  the  door  of  > 
Road,  waiting  with  an  air  of  philosophic  patience  until  Nancy  had 
pulled  down  her  sleeves  and  tied  on  a  clean  apron. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  observed  Xaucy,  dropping  a  little  wooden  courtesy;  and 
as  the  gentleman  turned  round  rather  quickly,  she  added,  "  We  ain't  got 
a  '  let '  up,  Mrs.  Slater  says,  because  we  are  full  at  present." 

'*  Oh  " — staring  at  her  in  rather  a  bewildered  fashion — "  I  am  sure  I 
am  very  glad  to  hear  it.  Your  neighbors  are  not  so  lucky,  for  I  saw 
several  placards  up;  but  I  have  not  come  after  lodgings.  I  believe  a 
gentleman  of  the  name  of  Weston  lives  here." 

*  Yes,  sir;  our  parlor  lodger,  but  he  is  not  in.  Miss  Dosie — that  is 
the  little  girl— is  in." 

"  Oh,  very  well,  I  will  speak  to  her,"  returned  the  stranger,  with  an 
air  of  relief;  and  Xancy,  without  wasting  any  more  words,  thrust  her 
head  into  the  parlor  and  observed,  "  Here  is  a  gentleman,  Miss  Dosie, 


There  was  a  small  demon  in  the  shape  of  a  black  kitten  washing  it 
very  busily  on  the  hearth-rug,  but  no  human  being  that  he  coul<. 
The  room  had  a  desolate,  untidy  aspect,  and  looked  like  a  bachelor's 
den.     "  I  suppose  she  is  upstairs,"  he  muttered,  and  then  he  went  up 
to  the  easel. 

But  the  next  moment  he  recoiled  with  a  start,  and  uttered  an  exclama- 
tion, for  he  had  caught  sight  of  a  small  head,  covered  with  rough  yel- 
lowish hair,  lying  on  the  window-seat  in  a  very  limp  manner;  it  might 
have  belonged  to  a  good-sized  doll,  only  it  moved  at  the  sound  of  his 
voice.  "  1  believe  I  was  asleep,"  remarked  Dossie,  with  dignity,  e 
moved  her  cramped  limbs  with  difficulty  and  struggled  to  her  feet!  "  If 
you  please,  father  is  out,  and  I  do  not  know  who  you  are." 

"  1  dare  say  not,  my  little  girl,"  returned  the  young  man,  shaking 
the  small  ink-stained  hand  very  kindly,  and  drawing  her  out  of  the 
corner;  "  but  I  dare  say  when  we  have  had  a  little  talk  we  shall  be 
friends.  Do  you  know,  I  first  saw  your  father  when  lie  was  only 
a  big  school-boy;  he  was  seventeen  or  eighteen,  I  forget  which,  but 
quite  still  a  boy,  and  I  was  a  little  fellow  about  six  or  B< 
younger." 

One  of  Dossiers  sudden  smiles,  that  always  took  people  by  sin; 
irradiated  her  binall  fuco  us  she  heard  this.     "  Oh,  did  you  really  know 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  0 

father  then?  How  you  could  help  me.  I  never  knew  any  one  before 
who  could  tell  me  what  he  was  like  us  a  boy;  of  course  you  do  not 
know  what  I  mean  by  wanting  to  know  all  this,  but  if  I  tell  you  I  am 
sure  you  would  help  me,"  looking  at  him  with  a  child's  unerring  in- 
stinct that  he  was  to  be  trusted. 

"  To  be^sure  I  will  help  you,"  was  the  quick  reply.  "  May  J  take 
off  my  overcoat  first"? — thank  you — and  as  I  knew  your  father  all  those 
years  ago  may  I  stir  the  fire?  I  am  afraid  I  forgot  what  the  maid  called 
you;  Miss  Dossie,  was  it?" 

"  No,  Dossie;  at  least  father  always  calls  me  Dossie,  but  Nancy  will 
always  call  me  Dosie.  I  don't  like  it,  it  is  such  a  sleepy  name,  but 
Nancy  never  can  see  the  difference.  Oh,  what  a  beautiful  blaze  you 
have  made!  Muff  is  quite  pleased,  listen  how  she  purrs.  Father  almost 
pokes  the  fire  to  pieces,  but  it  never  is  as  bright  as  that.  Please  take 
that  chair,  Mr. —  Oh,  now  I  come  to  think  of  it,  I  do  not  know  your 
name  either — how  funny. ' ' 

"  I  am  afraid  you  will  think  it  rather  a  difficult  name,  Miss  Dossie: 
Launcelot  Chudleigh — rather  a  mouthful,  eh,  but  people  often  call  me 
Lance  for  brevity's  sake.  Now,  I  should  very  much  like  to  know  what 
that  shake  of  the  head  means." 

"  I  am  only  thinking,"  was  the  oracular  reply,  as  Dossie  drew  a  stool 
to  the  hearthrug.  "I  always  shake  my  head  when  I  think  hard. 
When  you  spoke  to  me  first,  I  thought  you  were  young,  very  young, 
but  I  am  not  so  sure  now." 

Mr.  Chudleigh  laughed;  he  had  often  been  accused  of  this  before. 
lie  was  wonderfully  young-looking  for  his  age,  which  was  in  reality 
about  two-and-thirty;  his  face,  without  being  exactly  handsome — a 
term  that  would  not  have  suited  it  at  all— was  so  full  of  life  and  energy 
and  repressed  enthusiasm  that  it  seemed  to  speak  even  when  in  repose; 
the  mouth,  hardly  shaded  by  the  small  trim  mustache,  was  beautifully 
formed  and  characteristic,  and  the  gray  eyes  looked  very  kindly  at 
Dossie. 

Children  and  animals  never  misunderstood  Launcelot  Chudleigh, 
though  a  few  of  his  equals  in  age  called  him  a  hare-brained  enthusiast, 
and  accused  him  of  posing  as  an  English  Don  Quixote.  "  It  is  Chud- 
Ifigh's  role  to  be  peculiar,"  people  would  say.  "  I  believe  he  does  odd 
tilings  to  keep  up  his  character  for  singularity,  or  because  he  thinks  it 
artistic."  "  I  dare  say,  after  all,  his  unselfishness  is  only  a  form  of  re- 
fi ned  egotism,  a  subjective  idealism,"  finished  one  cranky  old  philoso- 
pher, who  always  grumbled  at  Launcelot  and  secretly  loved  him. 

Launcelot  was  immensely  amused  by  Dossie's  artless  speech.  You 
can  never  deceive  children,  he  moralized;  they  had  found  out  long  ago 
that  he  was  a  boy  at  heart  still,  he  was  afraid  he  should  never  grow  old 
and  dignified  like  other  people.  Even  when  his  head  was  gray,  his 
heart  would  be  young;  he  knew  this,  he  had  always  known  it,  and  had 
railed  at  himself  for  not  being  more  of  a  melancholy  Jacques;  but  a 
man  must  act  up  to  his  nature,  and  now  this  demure  little  thing,  with 
her  flaxen  doll's  head,  had  found  him  out.  So  this  was  Jack's  child; 
but  she  was  not  a  bit  like  poor  old  Jack,  and  some  one  had  told  him  her 
mother  had  been  pretty;  well,  she  could  not  take  after  her  mother  either, 
unless  she  were  a  very  washed-out  edition. 

"  Well,"  he  observed,  briskly,  as  Dossie  seemed  a  little  absent  and 
disinclined  to  speak,  "  what  is  this  important  matter  in  which  I  am  to 
help  you?"  and  as  though  the  question  had  recalled  her  wandering 


10 

'In1  chilil  ran  to  the  wind 
full 

vll  me,  !: 
v  laugh*;  and  s:iy.*.  rMiculous  thin::-  or  scribbles  :  a  the 

Mea  how  naughty  lit 

"  Uut  what  is  ft— what  are  you  writii,  !  Launcclot,  in  a  kind, 

pu/./leil  toi          "  My  di  ar  child,  ho\v  you  must  have  steeped  yourself  in 

:aiiu"'d  fingers  rather  pitifully. 
"  Ye*;.  Imt    Nancy 

father  does  not  mind,  ami  I  the  ink  myself.     Now,  then,  I  am 

iroiiiiT  to  li-ll  you:  1  am  writing  father's  life,  because  he  is  quite  the  best 
man  iii  the  world,  and,  of  course,  his  life  ought  to  be  written." 


CHAPTER  II. 

"THIS  IS  THE  HOUSE   THAT   JACK  BUILT." 

This  is  the  man,  all  tattered  and  torn, 
Who  married  the  maiden  all  forlorn,  etc. 

•i-}l  Rhyme. 

LAUNCELOT  dared  not  reply  to  this  astounding  piece  of  information 
for  fear  he  should  burst  out  laughing,  and  by  so  doing  offend  mortally 
this  whimsical  little  being,  so  he  bit  his  lip  hard  to  conceal  a  smile 
taking  one  of  the  copy-books  out  of  Dossie's  hand  he  bent  over  it  with 
"f  profound  interest. 

"  Father's  History  "  was  written  in  large,  childish  round-hand,  but 
underneath,  in  bold  masculine  handwriting,  was  inscribed  "  The  life  of 
Jack  West  on,  by  his  daughter,  being  a  full  and  veracious  account  of 
the  m:in,  his  morals,  and  complete  history  up  to  date,  drawn  from  an 
infantile  point  of  view.  Motto  for  same,  '  This  is  the  house  that  .lack 
built." 

"  I   am  sure  it  must  be  very  interesting,  Miss  Dossie,  "  observed 
Launcelot,  politely,  but  in  rather  a  stifled  voice;  he  was  growing  very 
the  face  in  the  effort  to  conceal  his  risibility—  tl- 


thing  ever  heard:  how  delighted  jladella  would  be  to  know  it. 
••uld  you  mind  very  much  if  I  were  to  read  a  page  or  two?    If  I 
am  to  help  you  by  any  choice  reminiscences  it  will  be  necessary  for  me 
little  of  the  style,  unless,"  regarding  the  many  blots  dubiously, 
"you  were  to  read  it  to  me  yourself." 

<*<\  Dossie,  joyously.    "  I  think  that  would  be  much 
.    1  always  read  it  to  father  and  Nancy;  but,"  regarding  him  with 
a  puxzle.-l  expression,  "  how  will  you.  ever  know  which  is  miu. 

.  is  father's,  for  he  has  written  such  funny  things?    If  I  v 
and  (ouzh  —  just  'hem,  'you  know  —  that  would  nmn  I  tin 

father's." 

"  That  will  be  a  capital  plan,"  replied  Launcelot.  taking  up  the  poker 
Deration:  his  shoulders  were  heaving,  1 
•1  him.     "  What  a  nice  man  lie  was,"  thought  Do-sic;  "  ]K 
light  f;il  that  he  had  known  her  faii  oy:  he  would  L 

ing  tilings  to  tell  her  presently:"  and  then  she  cleared   her 
it.     Launcelot  glanced  at  her  •  'lit  he 

impolitic  to  relinquish  the  poker. 
!  am  writing  father's  life  -piite  the  '  in  ihu 


ONLY     Tin:    UOVERX]  11 

world,  and  so  beautiful.  I  know  every  one  thinks  so,  because  when 
we  are  walking  together  people  look  at  him  so;  he  is  so  big  and  strong, 
and  holds  up  his  head  like  a  king,  and  he  has  a  nice  reddish-brown 
beard,  curly  rather.  Muff  likes  it,  for  she  tried  to  go  to  sleep  in  it  once, 
only  he  put  her  down  vere  carefully — father  never  hurts  anything— and 
called  her  an  impudent  little  cat,' — oh,  I  see,"  and  here  Dossie  coughed 
gently — "  '  N.B. — Rather  a  negative  virtue  that,  "  he  never  hurl 
thing."  When  a  man  is  his  worst  enemy  he  is  sure  to  do  mischief 
enough.  How  about  the  talent  laid  up  in  the  napkin  all  these  yrai>? 
I-  mind,  my  Dossie;  believe  in  your  father  with  the  beautiful  faith 
of  childhood,  "  the  best  man  in  the  world  " — what  a  stone  launched  by 
a  tiny  hand;  it  hits  hard  somehow. 

"  '  Father  and  I  have  always  lived  together  since  mother  died,  some- 
limes  in  one  place  and  sometimes  in  another.  Now  and  then  when  we 
are  very  comfortable  it  makes  me  sorry  when  father  says  he  lias  no 
money,  and  the  lodgings  are  too  expensive,  and  we  must  "  move  on." 
He  threatens  sometimes  to  take  to  a  caravan,  but  that  is  only  his  joke. 
Father  is  such  a  jokey  man.  I  cried  about  it  once  when  we  were  in  that 
pretty  cottage  on  the  common.  I  did  love  blackberrying  in  the  lanes 
so,  but  father  took  me  on  his  knee  and  looked  ready  to  cry  too,  and 
begged  me  not  to  be  sorry,  because  it  made  him  so  unhappy,  and  that 
he  would  give  me  all  I  wanted  if  he  could  only  sell  his  pictures,  but  he 
was  down  on  his  luck,  as  usual;  and  there  were  big  tears  in  his  eyes 
when  he  said  this. 

'  '  So  I  never  tell  him  I  am  sorry  now,  but  I  do  hope  that  we  shall 
not  leave  here  for  a  long  time,  for  Mrs.  Slater  and  Kaucy  are  so  kind, 
and  on  Sunday  father  always  takes  me  into  the  park  to  see  the  deer. 

;  '  Father  says  when  he  was  a  baby  his  name  was  John,  but  his  friends 
always  call  him  Jack.  lie  never  will  talk  of  the  time  when  he  was  H 
boy;  he  always  says  he  was  much  the  same  as  other  boys,  only  a  great 
pickle.  He  is  dreadfully  lazy — the  only  thing  that  seems  to  interest  him 
is  the  part  about  mother,' — dear  me,  hem!  'N.B. — My  poor  prctl\ 
Pen!  Is  it  any  wonder?  A  man,  unless  lie  be  an  absolute  brute,  which 
I  always  maintain  Jack  Weston  was  not,  is  ^ever  indifferent  to  his 
guardian  angel.  God  knows  how  I  loved  the  darling,  and  yet  I  failed 
to  make  her  happy.  She  was  too  tender,  too  sensitive  for  this  hard 
workaday  world— my  little  Dossie  takes  after  her  there,  I  fear.  AY  hat 
an  unlucky  beggar  1  have  been!  Two  good  women  to  love  me,  and  yet 
here  I  am  a  threadbare,  lonely  man,  a  painter  of  bad  pictures,  with 
hardly  a  friend  in  the  world  except  a  stray  Bohemian,  and  a  little  help- 
less female  child  for  whose  future  I  am  responsible.'  Father  was  very 
sad  when  he  wrote  that,"  finished  Dossie;  "he  could  not  joke  a  bit: 
he  just  put  his  head  on  his  hands  and  groaned,  but  when  I  asked  him 
what  was  the  matter  he  would  not  answer. 

'  '  Father  was  very  young  when  he  first  saw  mother.  He  says  he 
had  quarreled  with  his  friends,  and  was  sketching  in  a  pretty  village  in 
one  of  the  midland  counties.  He  lodged  at  the  inn,  and  was  very  happy 
anrl  comfortable. 

'  It  was  a  sweet  little  village,  with  cottages  all  covered  with  roses 
and  all  sorts  of  climbing  plants,  and  just  outside  the  village  near  the 
church  was  a  queer  old  red-brick  house,  with  a  beautiful  lawn  and  a 
cedar-tree.  It  was  a  girls'  school,  and  kept  by  two  funny  old  ladies,  1 
forget  their  names. 

'  ^Father  used  to  meet  the  girls  walking  two-and-two  on  a  summer's 
evening;  some  of  them  would  notice  him  and  nudge  each  other  as  they 


12  ONLY     THK     COVKKXESS. 

•1.  but  there  was  one  young  lady  in  gray,  who  walked  last,  who 
was  the  quietest  and  prettiest  of  them  all. 

'  '  Father  ealled  her  for  a  long  time  "  his  little  Quaker  friend 
cause  she  was  so  demure-looking,  and  always  wore  such  sober  < 
hut  when  he  came  to  look  at  her  more  closely  he  said  she  reminded  him 
of  a  little  pale  snow-drop,  there  was  something  so  fresh  and  pure  ahout 
her:  these  are  father's  own  words. 

'  He  got  to  know  the  clergyman  presently,  and  his  wife  told  father 
that  the  name  of  his  little  Quaker  friend  was  Penelope  Martin,  that  she 
was  an  orphan,  and  very  friendless  and  poor,  and  that  she  was  the 
junior  English  governess  at  the  Cedars.  "  But  we  are  all  very  fond  of 
her,  Mr.  Weston,"  she  added,  "  for  Miss  Martin  is  so  good  and  amiable, 
and  we  are  delighted  to  have  her  with  us  on  half-holid  Heie 

Dossie  paused  to  cough,  and  Launcelot,  who  had  long  ago  laid  down 
the  poker,  stole  another  glance  at  her  from  under  his  hand.  Even  Dos- 
sie hardly  knew  the  deep  interest  with  which  her  silent  auditor  followed 
every  word,  especially  the  annotations. 

"  '  How  well  I  remember  those  dear  old  vicarage  days.  Mrs.  More- 
land  was  a  good  friend  to  us  both  while  she  lived;  she  was  a  motherly 
soul,  and  gave  Pen  good  counsel. 

'  Those  half-holidays  were  my  red-  letter  days.  What  delicious  after- 
noons we  spent  in  the  old  garden,  making  believe  to  play  with  the  chil- 
dren; what  strolls  in  the  dewy  lanes  to  hunt  for  glow-worms;  what  whis- 
pered conversations  in  the  moonlight  when  1  took  Pen  h<5rne.  No  man 
ever  had  a  prettier  little  sweetheart,  and  yet  her  shyness  gave  me  trouble 
enough — sometimes  she  would  hardly  look  at  me,  and  yet  all  her  ways 
were  so  dainty,  so  bewitching.  She  told  me  afterward  she  was  afraid 
to  let  herself  love  me,  because  she  did  not  believe  in  happiness  coming  to 
her.  Her  life  had  been  hard,  and  perhaps  she  did  not  better  it  by  marry- 
ing Jack  Weston. 

1  Father  says  the  old  school- mistress  tried  to  prevent  her  marrying 
him,  but  he  got  his  way  in  the  end.  They  were  very  poor,  for  mother 
had  only  a  five  pound  note  in  her  pocket,  and  father  had  only  his  pict- 
ures, but  neither  of  them  minded  it  at  first.' — Oh,  dear,  here  comes 
father  again!  he  never  was  lazy  about  mother. 

*  Pen  did  not  mind;  I  can  take  my  oath  of  that.  She  was  as  happy 
as  a  child  let  out  of  school,  and  it  was  the  prettiest  sight  in  the  world  to 
see  her  playing  at  housekeeping. 

"  '  The  rooms  were  never  untidy  then.  She  had  a  knack  of  making 
everything  look  its  best.  There  were  always  flowers;  Pen  loved  tlow- 
ers.  Sometimes  I  would  find  the  mantel-piece  wreathed  with  bright- 
colored  leaves.  She  would  not  paint  a  bit,  but  yet  all  her  tastes  were 
artistic.  I  never  saw  her  look  shabby  all  those  years,  and  yet  we  were, 
dreadfully  poor,  and  I  know  she  seldom  bought  a  new  dress.  I  can  not 
tell  how  she  managed  it,  but  she  wore  herself  out;  poor  Pen! 

'  '  I  wish  I  were  like  mother,  but  father  says  I  shall  never  be  half  so 
good  and  pretty.  My  little  brothers,  Johnnie  and  Willie,  were  like  her, 
only  they  died.  Willie  was  such  a  fair,  darling  baby,  and  mother  doted 
on  "him.  He  died  after  the  whooping-cough,  and  father  says  poor 
mother  never  got  over  his  loss,  she  tired  herself  so  with  nursing  him; 
and  then  I  was  born,  and  somehow  she  got  weaker  and  weaker,  until 
she  was  loo  tired  to  live  any  longer  ' — hem— 

'  '  Right,  my  little  Dossie;  she  just  faded  away,  poor  Pen!     Ai 
fche  was  loath  to  leave  me  and  the  child.     She  was  always  telling  me 
h')vr  happy  1  had  made  her.  and  yet  all  the  time  I  knew  how  the 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  13 

and  worries  had  fretted  her.  There  was  never  money  for  anything; 
the  pictures  hung  on  hand.  I  believe  in  my  heart  that,  after  all,  sin- 
was  not  sorry  to  lie  down  with  the  boys.  She  was  always  grieving  for 
them,  Willie  especially.  Often  and  often  I  have  found  her  crying,  only 
ehe  would  not  tell  me  the  reason.  She  was  quiet  and  reserved  to  the 
last,  poor  Pen!  but  I  knew  when  I  lifted  her  and  felt  how  light  and  thin 
she  was,  that  she  was  just  wasting  away,  and  that  she  would  not  be 
loug  with  us.'  That  is  all  I  care  to  read,"  finished  Dossie,  candidly, 
<l  but  I  am  getting  on  as  fast  as  I  can.  Father  has  promised  me  a  lot 
of  anecdotes,  only  I  am  obliged  to  wait  for  them.  1  have  written  a  good 
deal  more  to-day,  only  I  have  smudged  the  words  so  that  I  can't  read 
them.  I  think  I  am  a  little  tired,"  she  ended,  with  a  si#h. 

"  Of  course  yon  are  tired,  you  poor  little  thing,"  returned  Launcelot, 
in  the  voice  that  always  won 'children's  hearts.  He  was  troubled  to  see 
the  utter  want  of  color  in  the  child's  face,  and  how  drooping  and  weary 
she  looked.  "  Now  what  shall  we  do  until  father  comes  home?  Have 
you  a  ball  or  a  skipping-rope?  I  am  very  partial  to  a  top  myself;  but 
then  you  see  I  am  only  a  big  boy.  Little  girls  like  dolls,  do  they  not?" 

"  Mine  is  broken,"  returned  Dossie,  in  rather  a  lachrymose  manner. 
"I  was  dreadfully  sorry  when  she  died,  but  father  gave  her  a  grand 
funeral,  and  then  ne  said  I  was  getting  too  old  for  such  babyish  things. 
I  should  like  to  play  with  you  verjr  much,  for  you  are  such  a  nice  man, 
and  I  am  sure  father  will  think  so;  but  it  is  getting  dark,  and  I  have  to 
tidy  the  room  before  Nancy  brings  in  the  tea-things." 

"  All  right,"  returned  Launcelot.  "  I  am  a  handy  fellow  for  mak- 
ing things  ship-shape.  Supposing  we  go  to  work  together.  Now,  Miss 
Dossie!  Why  should  not  these  coats  "find  a  place  on  the  pegs  outside? 
And  there  is  room' for  the  rugs  too. "  And,  acting  on  his  words,  Launce- 
lot dashed  out  of  the  room  with  an  armful  of  heterogeneous  wraps,  and 
on  his  return  commenced  clearing  the  chairs  and  couch,  while  Dossie, 
with  a  minute  and  very  dirty  duster  in  her  hand,  followed  him  about 
meekly. 

"Now  then, "  observed  Launcelot,  cheerily,  when  his  labors  were 
over,  "  don't  you  think  you  might  try  to  get  rid  of  these  ink-stains?" 
and  Dossie  nodded  and  vanished. 

"  After  all,  she  is  an  interesting  little  thing,"  was  Launcelot's  mental 
comment  when  she  was  left  alone;  "  but  then  all  children  interest  me; 
they  are  the  very  salt  of  the  earth — but  she  is  plain,  very  plain.  I  am 
sure  Madella  would  say  so — she  thinks  so  much  of  good  looks — but  she 
would  be  very  kind  to  her.  Madella  has  the  best  heart  in  the  world. 
Poor  old  Jack,  he  little  knows  I  have  been  behind  the  scenes.  I  declare 
that  account  was  very  touching.  The  little  monkey  has  a  good  mem- 
ory," and  then  he  took  out  a  letter  from  his  pocket,  and  began  reading 
it  with  a  knitted  brow.  "  My  dear  Launcelot,"  it  said,  "  I  wonder  if 
you  will  recognize  this  handwriting,  and  whether  you  ever  remember  tke 
existence  of  a  certain  individual  called  Jack  Weston. 

"  Do  you  ever  recall  your  old  school-days,  and  how  unmercifully  you 
used  to  chaff  Uncle  Jack?  You  were  a  clever  little  chap  then,  and  had 
far  more  brains  in  your  curly  head  than  fell  to  my  share. 

' '  But  you  will  be  saying  to  yourself,  '  Why  is  the  fellow  writing  to 
me  after  a  silence  of  fourteen  years?'  Well,  I  will  tell  you. 

"  I  was  walking  down  Pall  Mall  with  a  man  I  knew  the  other  day, 
when  he  suddenly  said,  *  There  goes  that  queer  fellow,  Chudleigh. 
Ilallain  always  calls  him  the  Wandering  Jew.  He  is  always  going  to 
and  fro  on  the  earth,  like  some  one  who  shall  be  nameless, '  and  then 


0  N 

yon  pi  .1  me  in  tlu-  fare—  cut  your  uncle—  eon 

Ah,  you  mean  Launeelot  Chudleigh,  I  -  rned, 

quietly;   '  well,  :  '  of  nephew  of  mine—  at  least  my  sister  mar- 

ried lus  father  when  lie  was  a  small  boy,  but  I  can  not  ansv 
relationship.    We  have  not  met  for  almost  fou:  beard 

•M  o 


l.  do  yon   know.  1   ronld  not  get  yon  out  of  my  head.      1 
the  g]  -:i  to  run  after  yon  and  ask  yon  to  shake  hands;  then  I 

lit  I  would  question  (Jreene.  and  when  I  had  pumped  him  sulli- 
.  1  made  up  my  mind  to  write  to  yon.      \~<>ilt'i  font. 

•  yon  are  not  too  proud  to  come  and  see  a  fellow  who  is  down 
on  his  luck,  and  who  has  not  a  friend  in  the  world,  you  will  find  me  at 
ul,  Richmond. 

"  Yours  truly, 

"  JACK 

Laimcelot  was  just  replacing  the  letter  in  the  envelope  when  he  heard 
a  latch  key  turning  in  the  hall  door,  and  Dossie's  shrill  little  voice  on 

the  stairr 

h,  father,  dear,  how  late  you  are;  has  the  east  wind  been  very 
bad?" 

"Pretty  bad,  my  pet.     At  least,  I  ani  as  cross  as  possible.     Well. 
what  is  it,  Dossie?    You  look  as  though  you  were  going  to  eat  me  np." 
"  Oh,  father,  such  a  surprise!     You  have  no  idea  what  you  will  find 
in  the  parlor." 

"  Fee-fo-fum,  I  smell  the  blood  of  an  Englishman,"  continued  the 
same  cheery  voice,  and  the  next  moment  a  very  big  man  in  an  ulster  en- 
tered the  room. 

"An  apt  quotation,"  observed  Launcelot,  stepping  forward  in  hi» 
alert  way.  "  How  do  you  do,  Uncle  Jack?" 

"  Laimcelot,  old  fellow!"  And  then  the  two  men  grasped  hands,  and 
the  face  of  the  elder  man  became  strangely  pale  for  a  moment. 

"  It  is  good  of  you  to  come,"  he  said,  rather  gruffly,  as  though  un- 
willing to  show  emotion.     "I  am  very  much  surprised;  I  hardly  ex- 
1  it.     You  are  not  so  much  changed,  Launcelot  —  I  should  know 
you  anywhere." 

"lean  not  return  the  compliment,"  was  the  reply,  and  Launcelot 
looked  at  him  attentively.     Dossie  was  right,  he  thought.     Jack 
ton  was  certainly  a  striking-looking  man.     He  was  powerfully  made, 
only  his  broad  shoulders  had  a  slight  stoop  in  them.     II 
handsome,  loo.  and  the  golden-brown  beard  gave  him  an  air  of  dignity 
which  the  careless  good  nature  which  was  his  normal  expression  hardly 
out.     "  When  a  man  is  his  worst  enemy,"  Launcelot  said  to  him- 
self (for  Jack's  annotations  had  stamped  themselves  on  his  mei 

now  and  then  he  would  repeat  a  phrase  with  parrot  -lik 
Launcelot's  vivacity  and  easy  boyish  manners  often  <!< 
They  had  no  idea  of  the  quiet  penetration  that  underlaid  his  bno\ 
lie  had    an    extraordinary  power   of    reading   charaet.  He 

•  instinctively  the  salient  points;  manneii  radic- 

minor  ditlieulties  never  long  baffled  him.     He  always  worked  his 
;t  of  the  man.      Xow  and   then  he  made  mi 
-lit  for  virtues  they  i. 
them  at  their  wcrst. 

Launeelol's  quick  eyes  hud  noticed  several  things  during  that  lirst 
u  nailer  of  an  hour,  during  which  he  and  Jack  •  common- 


ONLY    THE    ftOYER'N'ESS.  15 

places.  Nancy  was  laying  the  tea  table,  and  Dossie  vras  helping  her; 
the  child  seemed  to  have  a  passion  for  service — and  by  mutual  consent 
both  men  confined  themselves  to  generalities,  the  weather,  politics,  and 
the  dullness  in  trade. 

Lnuncelot  found  plenty  to  say  on  all  these  subjects,  for  he  was  a  ready 
t  Ikcr  and  rarely  cared  to  hold  his  tongue  long;  but  he  entered  several 
items  on  the  tablets  of  his  memory,  to  be  pondered  over  in  quiet. 

Item  number  one:  Why  was  Jack's  coat  so  shabby?  Launcelot  ob- 
jected on  principle  to  a  shabby  coat.  There  must  be  "  something  rot- 
ten in  the  state  of  Denmark  "  when  a  man  allows  his  clothes  to  tell  a 
tale  of  ill  success. 

Item  number  two:  Why  did  his  hand  tremble  as  he  took  up  the  tea- 
caddy?  V 

Item  number  three:  Why  had  his  placid,  good-tempered-looking  face 
turned  so  pale  when  they  had  first  met?  Strong  men  do  not  ordinarily 
change  color;  they  were  such  complete  strangers  to  each  other  that 
Launcelot,  while  he  had  anticipated  a  heart}'  welcome,  was  hardly  pre- 
pared for  any  show  of  emotion,  but — perhaps  the  poor  beggar  had  gone 
through  so  much  trouble. 

They  talked  shop  all  the  tea-time— at  least  that  was  how  Jack  ex- 
•.".\  it.  Launcelot  spoke  of  his  studio  which  he  had  built  at  the 
Witchens.  "  Oh,  oh,  you  still  live  at  the  Witcheus?"  observed  Jack, 
evidently  feeling  his  way  a  little. 

"  Yes,  my  father  bought  it,  it  is  mine  now;  it  is  rather  a  big  house, 
but  we  manage  to  fill  it.  Madella  and  the  girls  are  at  Mentone  now. " 

"  Who?  oh,  I  know.  My  sister  Delia,"  speaking  with  some  slight 
embarrassment;  "  so  you  keep  to  your  old  childish  name  for  your  step- 
mother?" 

"  Yes,  it  just  suits  her;  do  you  remember  how  my  father  wanted  me 
t:i  call  her  mother  or  mamma,  and  1  refused,  because" I  said  Jack  always 
culled  her  Delia;  we  came  to  a  compromise  at  last,  and  I  coined  the 
word  Madella;  it  was  very  wise  of  her  to  tell  me  how  much  she  liked  it, 
for  I  was  inclined  to  be  a  rebel." 

"  Yes,  I  remember;"  but  Jack  added,  hastily,  as  Dossie's  eyes  grew 
largo  and  curious,  "  Are  your  pictures  successful?"  and  Launcelot  was 
quick  to  take  the  hint. 

"  Oh,  as  to  that,  I  do  not  care  to  sell  my  pictures,  but  people  do  buy 
them.  I  have  just  come  back  from  Rome;  I  was  in  the  Austrian  Tyrol 
all  the  summer,  but  the  boys  wanted  me.  By  the  bye,  do  you  know 
Singleton  expects  to  make  a  hit  this  season?  he  has  painted  a  very  power- 
ful picture,  '  The  Ten  Virgins.'  "  And  here  followed  a  rapid  discussion 
on  the  merits  and  demerits  of  several  artists  and  their  work,  to  which 
Dossie  listened  with  rapt  attention.  She  made  no  attempt  to  interrupt 
them,  only  her  little  hand  stole  into  her  father's,  and  Lauucelot  noticed 
how  lie  patted  it  softly  from  time  to  time,  as  though  he  never  forgot  her 
presence. 

By  and  by  he  turned  to  her,  and  asked  her  gently  if  it  were  not  time 
for  Nancy  to  put  her  to  bed. 

Dossie's  face  fell.  "  Only  just  time,  father,  and  I  am  not  a  bit 
sleepy;  but  if  you  wish  me  to  go—" 

"  I  do  wish"  it,  darling;  you  see  this  gentleman  and  I  have  a  great 
deal  to  talk  about,  and — "  but  Dossie  needed  no  more;  evidently  her 
father's  wish  was  law  to  her.  She  rose  at  once,  and  held  up  her  face  to 
be  kissed,  then  she  went  round  to  Launcelot  and  gave  kim  her  hand 
very  gravely. 


1(5  ONLY     THF. 

;<>od-night.  Mi  —  i   hope  wo  shall  see  a  great  deal  of  each 

otlior  in  future,"  and  Dossie's  sad  little  face  brightened  at  the  kind 
words,  as  she  lifted  the  kitten  and  stole  noiselessly  out  of  the  room. 
But  for  several  minutes  after  she  had  closed  the  door,  the  silence  was 
still  uubroken  between  the  two  men. 


CHAPTER  III. 

"LIKE  THE  BIRDS  OP  THE  AIR." 

Nothing  is  ever  lost,  while  much  is  always  gained,  by  attending  to  the  good  of  c. 
thing  before  its  evil.— GRIN  DON. 

There  may  be  epics  in  men's  brains,  just  as  there  are  oaks  in  acorns,  but  th«  tree 
ami  the  book  must  come  out  before  we  measure  them.— EMERSON. 

THERE  is  something  oppressive  in  this  sort  of  silence;  in  one  sense  it 
is  far  more  eloquent  than  speech,  one  dreads  to  utter  the  first  word. 
To  Jack  Weston  the  very  air  seemed  surcharged  with  suppressed  mean- 
ing, with  mysterious  possibilities.  An  uneasy  conviction  that  the  man 
he  had  summoned  to  his  help  out  of  sheen  longing  for  human  sympathy 
might  perchance  sit  in  judgment  upon  him,  made  him  almost  repent  of 
his  hasty  impulse.  Why  had  he  invoked  these  ghosts  of  his  dead 
youth?  why  had  he  tried  to  bridge  over  the  chasm  that  severed  his 
earlier  and  later  life?  Jack's  broad  shoulders  were  still  more  bent  as 
he  asked  himself  these  questions;  he  averted  his  eyes  rather  moodily 
from  his  silent  companion.  It  was  Launcelot  who  spoke  first,  but  hi's 
few  words  broke  through  the  barrier  at  once. 

"Tell  me  all  about  it,  Jack,"  he  said,  very  quietly.  "You  have 
been  fourteen  years  sending  for  me,  but  you  see  1  came  at  once." 

"  I  do  not  know  what  there  is  to  tell,^'  replied  the  other,  slowly.  "  I 
have  been  a  fool  and  made  a  mess  of  me  life;  many  men  have  done  the 
same.  I  am  not  the  only  reprobate  in  the  world,"  finished  Jack,  witfc 
a  dismal  smile. 

"  I  dare  say  you  are  right,"  was  the  cool  response,  "  but,  we  may  as 
well  avoid  generalities  for  the  present.  I  do  not  know  how  you  t'eel 
about  things,  but  I  have  always  found  too  much  dilliculty  in  keeping 
myself  in  order  to  meddle  about  other  folks'  business.  No  doubt  there 
are  plenty  of  fools  in  the  world,  some  of  them  very  pleasant  fellows, 
but  when  a  man  owns  himself  to  be  beaten  by  ill-luck,  and  confe- 
the  same  time  that  he  has  not  a  single  friend,  I  am  inclined  to  think  that 
there  must  be  more  than  foolishness  at  the  bottom." 

"  Of  course  I  have  laid  myself  open  to  this,"  was  Jack's  gloomy  an- 
swer, and  his  good-natured  face  grew  heavy  and  forbidding.  "  1  \\as 
a  fool,  after  all,  to  send  for  you." 

"  My  dear  fellow,  a  hundred  times  no!  There  was  method  in  your 
madness  then.  Now  listen.  I  don't  mean  to  be  hard  upon  you,  but  i 
want  you  to  be  frank  with  me;  your  little  Dossie  has  taken  me  behind 
the  scenes,  and  I  know  you  have-  had  your  blessings  like  other  men.  1 
wish  I  had  seen  your  wife,  Jack;  she  must  have,  been  a  good  woman: 
she  has  taken  my  fancy,  and,"  added  Launcelot,  with  a  curious  smile, 
"  I  was  always  fastidious  about  women." 

"  Pen  was  the  dearest  and  the  sweetest  wife  that  a  man  could  h 
burst  out  Jack,  with  a  sort  of  break  in  his  voice;   "  she  was  a  heroine  in 
her  little  way.     If  tilings  were  hard,  she  never  complained.     Sin 
bit  of  a  Puritan,  was  Pen,  but  somehow  1   liked  it.  in  her;   I. 

her  happy.     When   I   came  home  discouraged  and  sore  hearteil, 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  17 

with  empty  pockets,  she  would  just  smile  in  my  face,  and  say,  '  Never 
mind,  Jack,  we  have  our  crumbs  too  to-day  like  the  birds  of  the  air,  and 
we  are  not  to  fret  about  to-morrow.'  My  blessed  Pen!  it  was  the  boy's 
death  broke  her  down:  she  was  never  the  same  woman  after  that."* 

"I  wonder — "  began  Launcelot,  and  then  he  paused,  as  though 
doubtful  how  to  go  on.  ; 

"  You  wonder  she  did  not  heal  the  breach.  Well,  I  never  gave  her 
the  chance.  She  knew  I  had  a  sister,  and  that  was  all.  I  never  spoke 
to  her  of  Delia." 

"  What  a  grievous  mistake!" 

"  Oh,  no  doubt.  I  was  sowing  a  plentiful  crop  just  then.  I  do  not 
mind  owning  to  you  now  that  I  was  an  egregious  ass.  Poor  Delia  had 
been  very  good  to  me.  She  had  paid  my  debts  again  and  again,  but 
when  she  married  your  father  things  were  very  different;  she  let  rue  see 
very  plainly  then  that  she  was  ashamed  of  having  such  a  scapegrace  for 
a  brother." 

"  You  wrong  Madella  there,"  was  the  warm  answer;  "  no  one  can 
accuse  her  of  want  of  generosity.  I  have  never  heard  her  speak  a  hard 
word  of  you,  though  I  suppose  your  conscience  tells  you  that  you  have 
behaved  most  unkindly  to  her.  It  is  always  '  Poor  Jack,  I  wonder  what 
has  become  of  him?  I  hope  his  wife  is  good  to  him:  it  is  hard  not  to 
know  if  he  has  any  children,'  and  so  on.  No,  I  will  not  have  Madella 
blamed." 

"  I  suppose  you  will  allow  that  she  .had  not  a  will  of  her  own  after 
she  married  Chudleigh,  and  I  suppose  you  will  admit  that  your  father 
ruled  us  both  with  a  rod  of  iron." 

"  Humph!"  in  a  dubioui  tone.  "  I  am  hardly  prepared  to  admit  even 
as  much  as  that.  As  long  as  he  lived,  Madella  was  the  happiest  woman 
in  the  world.  They  exactly  suited  each  other;  perhaps  he  was  rattier 
strict,  even  with  his  own  boys,  but  then  you  see  he  held  old-fashioned 
opinions  on  the  rights  of  parents.  He  was  not  sufficiently  enlightened 
to  hold  the  doctrine  of  obedience  to  children.  He  was  a  disciplinarian, 
and  liked  to  rule  his  own  household." 

Jack  smiled  grimly.  "  Of  course  I  can  not  expect  you  to  side  with 
me  against  your  own  father,  but  you  were  a  kind  little  champion  in 
those  days,  so  I  will  forgive  your  sarcasm.  Of  course  I  knew  I  was  an 
apple  of  discord,  and  that  poor  Delia  would  have  been  happier  without 
me.  I  never  could  be  civil  to  Chudleigh.  I  am  afraid  1  hated  him. 
It  seemed  to  me  a  mean  thing  to  live  under  a  man's  roof  and  eat  at  his 
table,  and  all  the  time  be  hostile  to  him,  so  when  things  became  worse 
I  just  broke  away  from  it  all." 

"  I  know  you  behaved  like  a  madman." 

"  Freedom  seemed  glorious  to  me  then,"  went  on  Jack,  without  heed- 
ing this.  "  I  believe  if  1  had  only  kept  single  and  stuck  to  my  work,  I 
should  have  done  well  enough;  but  I  met  Pen,  and  then  it  was  all  up 
with  me." 

*'  Yes,  and  it  was  that  imprudent  marriage  that  incensed  father/'  re- 
turned Launcelot.  "  I  remember,  as  though  it  were  yesterday,  his  com- 
ing into  the  morning- room  when  I  was  reading  '  Dombey  and  Son  '  to 
Madella.  '  I  have  had  a  letter  from  Walter  Moreland,  an  old  school- 
fellow of  mine,'  he  began;  '  do  you  know  what  that  fool  of  a  brother  of 
yours  has  done  now?  He  has  actually  marrie4 — married  without  a 
penny  in  his  pocket:  a  beggarly  little  governess  too.  Now,  Delia,  listen 
to  me,  I  wash  my  hands  of  that  boy  forever.  He  is  utterly  incorrigible 
and  irreclaimable.  Not  one  farthing  of  my  money  shall  he  touch  from 


IS  ONLY     Tin:    GOVERN! 


tins  day  forth;'  and,  though  ^ladella  cried  and  hogged  him  to  let  her 
write  t<>  you  once,  lie  would  not  give  way." 
yet  you  .--ay  he  was  not  hard?"' 

"No,  I'  think  he  had  a  right  to  lie  disj  leased.     No  man  lias  a  right  to 
marry  and   bring  children   into  the  worid  unless  he  can  sec  hi 
clearly  to  make  provision  for  them.     You  could  not  expect  my  father 
,;>port  your  family." 

"1  never  a^kcd  him  for  a  penny,  or  Delia  cither,"  returned  Jack. 
angrily.     "  I  have  far  too  much  pride  to  beg  help  from  any  man.      You 
think  because  I  have  made  a  mess  of  my  life,  and  have  done  v 
things,  that  1  have  not  tried  to  do  better.     Pen  knows  how  hard   1 
worked,  she  never  blamed  me  for  idleness.     Of  course  we  were  foolish 
to  marry  so  young.     Pen  was  a  mere  child,  and  1  was  headstrong  an<! 
inexperienced.     Well,  we  have  '  dree'd  our  weird,'  and  seen  evil 
but  1  am  not  sure  if  it  all  came  over  again  that  I  should  not  do  exactly 
the  same  thing.     Pen  and  1  were  happy  in  spite  of  it  all;  we  were  too 
fond  of  each  other  to  be  miserable.     She  always  believed  in  my  <  . 
ness.     Why,  bless  you,  if  any  one  had  told  Pen  my  pictures  were  mere 
daubs  and  not  worth  their  frames,  she  would  have  been  ready  to  shut 
the  door  in  his  face.     Dossie  takes  after  her  mother  in  that  '  fii. 
Jack;'  she  actually  believes  in  me  too." 

Launcelot  regarded  him  with  a  pitying  look.  Jack's  frankness  touched 
him;  he  could  understand  that  women  —  even  good  women  —  might  find 
him  lovable,  and  yet  he  was  a  reprobate;  he  must  have  deteriorated 
since  his  wife's  death.  No  doubt  he  had  kept  straight  for  Pen's  sake, 
but  he  must  find  out  something  more  even  at  the  risk  of  offending  him. 

"  Look  here,  old  man,"  he  exclaimed,  suddenly,  "  we  are  becoming 
quite  confidential,  talking  in  quite  a  brotherly  style.  Now  I  like  that; 
I  am  always  glad  when  a  fellow  speaks  out  without  any  humbug,  it 
makes  me  think  more  of  him—  indeed  it  does—  and  we  need  not  always 
be  flinging  a  man's  follies  in  his  face;  that  sort  of  thing  is  too  agg: 
ing.  What  I  want  to  know  now  is,  how  do  you  and  Dossie  live?  If 
your  pictures  are  bad,  how  do  they  sell?  Have  you  any  plan  for  the 
future?" 

"  Do  you  smoke?"  was  the  unexpected  answer  to  this.  "  I  am  fond 
of  a  pipe  myself;  it  soothes  the  nerves.  1  could  not  live  without  my 
pipe.  If  you  will  excuse  me  I  will  ring  for  some  water;  a  little  whisky 
would  not  come  amiss." 

"  Not  for  me,"  returned  Launcelot,  decidedly.  "  I  never  take  spirits; 
indeed,  I  am  no  smoker,  but  1  will  help  myself  to  a  cigarette  to  keep 
you  company.  You  will  think  I  am  a  queer  sort  of  fellow,"  he  con- 
tinued, "  but  I  have  a  horror  of  such  stimulants.  I  have  no  objection 
to  good  claret  or  hock  or  any  of  those  light  wines  that  one  takes  with 
one's  meals,  but  there  I  draw-  the  line." 

Jack  was  placing  the  whisky-bottle  on  the  table.  He  shook  his  head 
at  this. 

"  Pen  never  allowed  this  sort  of  thing  either;  poor  little  girl,  I  should 
have  shocked  her  dreadfully.     But  it  has  become  a  necessity  to  mo 
now.     Why,  my  dear  fellow,"  rather  irritably,  "  ho\v  do  you  sup; 
should  get  through  the  long  evening,  when  Dpssie  is  in  bed  and  1  have 
only  my  thoughts  to  keep  me  company,  if  I  did  not  banish  the  g] 
somehow?     1  hope  1  do  not  often  take  too  much,"  finished  Jack,  hum 
My.     "  I  don't  wish  to  disgrace  myself,  for  1  >.  e,  but  one  must 

get  rid  of  the  blue  devils." 

•ill  nerer  get  rid  of  them  in  that  way.     Why  not  content 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  19 

yourself  with  a  pipe  to-night?  You  are  not  alone.  Look  here.  I  know 
it  is  no  good  preaching  to  people,  and  1  don't  want  you  to  think  me 
strait-laced  and  that  sort  of  thing,  but  if  you  sit  here  evening  after 
evening  trying  to  forget  your  trouble  by  drowning  it  in  whisky  and 
water,  I  say  that  you  are  simply  destroying  yourself,  soul  and  body. 
Give  it  up,  my  dear  fellow,  before  the  habit  gets  too  strong  and  mas- 
ters you." 

"  Pshaw!  I  am  no  worse  than  hundreds  of  other  men.  It  does  not 
follow  that  because  I  do  not  pretend  to  be  a  saint  I  am  the  other  thing. 
A  glass  of  good  wholesome  stuff  like  this  does  no  harm  in  the  long  run." 

"  Mere  sophistry,"  returned  Launcelot,  sadly.  "  You  can  not  drown 
trouble  of  mind  in  one  glass.  Are  you  sure  you  keep  an  exact  account? 
Do  you  always  measure  accurately?  Does  not  appetite  and  capacity 
grow  with  indulgence?  Give  it  up,  Jack,  for  God's  sake!" 

"  Let  us  change  the  subject,"  was  the  impatient  answer.  "  No  one 
can  call  me  a  bad-natured  fellow,  but  I  am  a  bit  cranky  on  some  points, 
and  apt  to  turn  rusty.  Don't  let  us  argue  at  our  first  meeting.  I  won't 
take  a  second  glass  to-night,  I  vow.  It  does  me  good  to  see  you  sitting 
there.  I  thought  perhaps  you  would  take  fright  at  my  shabby  coat, 
and  cut  your  visit  short." 

"  No,  indeed,"  returned  Launcelot,  cheerfully.  "  I  am  waiting  until 
you  see  fit  to  answer  my  questions.  How  do  you  and  Dossie  live?  Ex- 
cuse my  plain  speaking,  but  I  never  could  beat  about  the  bush." 

"  No,  you  were  always  an  impudent  little  beggar.  By  the  bye,  how 
do  you  continue  to  look  so  young?  There  are  only  a  few  years  between 
us,  and  already  there  are  gray  hairs  in  my  head." 

"  I  take  life  easily;  that  is  all.     Now,  Jack,  I  insist  on  an  answer." 

"  All  right;  you  shall  have  it.  What  do  you  want  to  know — how  do 
I  and  Dossie  live?  Well,  very  much  as  Pen  said — '  like  the' birds  of  the 
air.'  Sometimes  there  are  plenty  of  crumbs,  and  then  we  have  a  good 
time;  and  sometimes  the  dealers,  confound  them!  tell  me  that  they  are 
sick  of  my  pictures,  that  they  hang  on  hand,  that  the  subject  is  stale, 
or  the  market  is  overstocked,  and  then  we  have  to  do  as  well  as  we  can." 

"  I  trust  the  latter  is  not  your  position  at  the  present  moment,"  but 
as  Launcelot  threw  out  this  feeler  he  was  taken  aback  to  see  Jack  draw 
himself  up  with  an  air  of  dignity,  while  an  embarrassed  flush  crossed  his 
face. 

"  Excuse  me,  but  I  would  rather  not  answer  that  question." 

"  All  right,"  was  the  cheerful  response,  "  I  retract  it;  consider  it  un- 
said. I  suppose  you  are  still  fond  of  your  work?  You  would  rather 
be  an  artist  than  anything  else?" 

' '  Upon  my  word,  I  do  not  know.  I  am  so  sick  of  the  whole  thing 
that  I  should  not  care  if  I  never  painted  another  picture;  one  grows  so 
weary  of  failures.  When  I  was  in  the  calf  stage  I  thought  myself  a 
sort  of  sucking  Salvator  Rosa.  I  fancied  Jack  Weston  would  do  a  thing 
or  two  that  would  set  the  Thames  on  fire;  now  I  paint  old  women  and 
little  bits  of  landscape  for  bread  and  cheese,  and  sometimes  we  have  to 
go  without  the  cheese. 

"  The  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts,"  returned  Launce- 
lot, a  little  dreamily.  "  Depend  upon  it,  old  fellow,  the  calf  stage,  as 
you  call  it,  is  far  the  happiest  time  in  one's  life.  Salvator  Rosa!  Why, 
s.t  eighteen  I  had  an  ambition  that  landed  me  at  the  footstool  of  thaf 
prince  of  Titans,  Michael  Angelo.  Ah!  '  there  were  giants  in  those 
days,' Jack.  I  still  worship  my  old  ideals,  and  burn  incense  before 
their  shrines;  but  the  difference  is  that  now  I  can  content  myself  with 


20  OXLT    'I 

reverence  and  admiral  inn;  they  arc  my  ma-tern,  my  teachers,  and  I 
dabble  \vi?'n  a  IVw  colors  like  8  child,' at  their  feet,  make  a  study  or 
two,  and  call  myself  an  artist." 

.lack  suddenly  burst  out  laughing. 

"  DC  you  remember  your  picture  of  Satan,  and  how  one  of  the  serv- 
ants nearly  went  into  a  fit  when  she  came  upon  it  suddenly,  and  nurse 
scolded  hm*  for  being  such  a  gaby?     '  It  is  nothing  but  ah  ugly 
sweep,  you  silly  girl,'  she  said,  '  and  Mr.  Launeelot  ought  to  1  - 

-ft-  his  time  and  good  paints  over  such  a  patchy  concern.' 
Launeelot.  I  can  see  your  face  now." 

Launeelot  smiled  grimly.     "  I  am  afraid  I  felt  pretty  bad,  and 
YOU  were  crowing  over  my  discomfiture.     Fancy  my  terribly  beautiful 
Lucifer  turned  into  a  sweep.     Ah,  one's  dreams  die  hard.     1  remember 
I  would  not  touch  my  brush  for  a  month  after  nurse's  unluck 
mark." 

"  What  a  droll  fellow  you  were,  Launeelot,"  and  thereupon  followed 
one  reminiscence  after  another;  boyish  adventures  which  generally 
ended  disastrously  for  Jack,  scrapes  out  of  which  Launeelot  had  h 
him,  fishing  and  sketching  excursions  that  they  had  enjoyed  together; 
and  as  they  talked,  Jack's  countenance  cleared  and  grew  animated,  and 
the  lines  on  his  forehead  seemed  to  smooth  themselves  out.  By  and  by 
he  began  to  question  Launeelot  in  his  turn. 

"  So  you  are  all  at  the  Witchens?    I  wonder  you  have  not  married." 

"  So  do  I,"  was  the  brisk  answer,  "  but  I  have  never  managed  to  fall 
properly  in  love.  I  did  propose  to  one  young  lady,  but  she  would  not 
have  me.  She  said  I  bored  her  so  with  philanthropy,  and  that  she  never 
knew  what  I  was  talking  about.  She  was  a  lovely  creature;  but  when 
I  took  matters  into  consideration  afterward  1  was  really  quite  glad  that 
she  had  said  No.  1  told  her  so  afterward,  and  thanked  her  for  saving 
us  both  from  a  great  mistake.  '  I  was  too  hasty  about  it  altogether,'  I 
continued,  '  I  did  not  properly  balance  things;  you  are  quite  right,  we 
should  both  have  been  miserable. '  Would  you  believe  it,  she  did  not 
seem  pleased  at  that,  either;  she  muttered  something  about  my  being  a 
very  singular  man.  I  painted  her  afterward,  we  became  quite 
friends,  and  when  she  married  I  was  her  husband's  best  man." 

"  Pshaw!  you  could  not  have  cared  for  the  girl  a  bit." 

"I  don't  know.  I  was  hard  hit  for  a  few  days;  she  really  was  a 
beautiful  creature,  only  shallow.  That  is  why  I  have  never  married. 
The  girls  I  fancied  were  all  handsome,  but  they  all  disappointed  me.  1 
nearly  proposed  to  another,  only  I  heard  her  scolding  her  maid  for  drop- 
ping some  wax  on  a  silk  dress,  and  I  did  not  admire  the  tone  and  style. 
The  English  was  perfect,  but  somehow  it  reminded  me  of  an  old  Irish- 
woman I  had  heard  in  Whitechapel — it  was  the  tone.  So  much  de- 
pends on  the  tone,"  finished  Launeelot,  sententiously. 

"  Still,  a  fellow  like  you,  with  plenty  of  money  and  no  incumbrance, 
ought  to  be  able  to  find  a  good  wife  without  much  trouble.  Why,  look 
at  me,  not  a  penny  in  my  pocket,  and  yet  I  got  Pen." 

but  you  were  such  a  good-looking  beggar;  and  a  woman  like 
your  Pen  never  crossed  mv  path.     Some  of  the  girls  made  1« 
and  I  did  not  like  that,  and  if  my  fancy  turned  on  one  in  particular,  she 
•ire  to  be  engaged;  in  fact,  like  Dick  Swiveller  of  immortal  mrm 
ory,  I  never  loved  a  dear  ga/elle.  but  she  was  sure  to  marry  the  n 
gardener;"  and  with  these  words  he  rose. 

"  Oh,   you  are  not  going'?"  exclaimed  .lack,  blankly.     "And  you 
'•ot  told  inc.  a  word  about  the  kids?"  but  Launeelot  did  not  re- 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  %\ 

I 

sume  his  seat;  he  took  out  his  watch  and  looked  at  it,  and  then  stood 
on  the  rug  warming  himself  as  he  spoke. 

"  Kids?  There  are  only  two  now,  Sybil  and  Freckles— Fred,  I  mean  : 
the  others  are  all  grown  up.  Why,  Geoffrey  has  left  Oxford,  and  is 
reading  for  the  bar,  and  Bernard  is  at  Magdalene;  as  for  the  girls,  Bea- 
trix and  Pauline,  they  are  "both  out,  as  they  call  it.  Bee  is  very  pretty, 
rather  in  Madella's  style,  only  not  so  soft-looking;  Pauline  is  a  nice 
sensible  girl.  No  incumbrances— I  like  that,  when  I  have  a  family  of 
girls  and  boys  to  IOOK  after.  There,  time  is  up;  I  must  be  off  or  I  shall 
lose  the  last  train.  Good-night,  old  fellow.  I  will  see  you  again  in  a 
few  days,  and  we  will  have  another  talk;  I  shall  find  you  here?"  inter- 
rogatively. 

:'  Yes,  I  think  so,  but  do  not  make  it  long  before  you  come,"  replied 
Jack,  wringing  his  hand.  Launcelot  bore  the  pain  without  wincing, 
but  his  face  was  very  grave  as  he  went  down  the  steps. 

"  He  would  not  speak  out,  and  it  seemed  hardly  right  to  press  him. 
I  had  to  feel  my  way.  Poor  old  Jack,  I  like  him,  I  always  liked  him, 
but  he  wants  ballast;  he  is  very  weak.  He  means  no  harm,  but  he  is 
slipping  down  the  hill  fast.  It  is  a  dangerous  sort  of  thing  to  shut  one's 
self  up  every  night  with  a  pipe  and  whisky  and  water,  especially  if  one 
is  haunted  by  a  dead  face  that  is  dearer  than  any  living  one,  and  per- 
haps debts  and  duns  in  the  background.  It  takes  a  great  many  glasses 
to  drown  that  sort  of  thing.  No,  no,  we  must  put  a  stop  to  this.  Poor 
little  Dossic,  he  dotes  on  her;  but  she  is  terribly  neglected.  What  would 
Matlella  have  said  to  her  frock?  He  is  not  the  man  to  be  trusted  with 
a  child;  he  wants  looking  after  himself.  If  I  could  only  get  him  away 
and  ask  M  add  la  to  take  Dossie.  Why,  she  would  be  a  nice  companion 
to  Sybil.  .Miss  Kossiter  could  look  after  them  both — really  a  brilliant 
idea,  but  will  he  let  me  have  her?  will  he  listen  to  reason?  will  he  be 
capable  of  the  sacrifice?  Miss  Rossiter  would  be  good  to  her,  I  know; 
she  is  a  kind-hearted  creature — by  the  bye,  how  infatuated  they  all  are 
about  her,  even  Pauline.  I  don't  mind  owning  I  was  a  bit  fascinated 
myself;  she  is  very  taking.  Madella  looks  vexed  when  I  tell  her  she  is 
far  too  handsome  for  a  governess;  she  will  not  allow  she  is  so  very  hand- 
some. Well,  I  wish  I  had  them  all  safely  back.  It  is  rather  slow  at 
present  for  Geoff  and  myself."  And  so  Launcelot's  thoughts  ran  on, 
but  they  always  returned  to  one  point:  What  could  he  do  to  benefit 
poor  Jack  Weston? 

He  would  have  been  easier  in  his  mind  if  he  could  have  looked  into 
the  parlor  he  had  just  left.  Jack  smoked  out  his  pipe,  then  he  knocked 
out  the  ashes,  and  locked  up  the  untouched  whisky. 

"  Just  this  once  to  please  him,"  he  muttered,  "  and  I  want  a  steady 
head  for  to-morrow.  I  will  go  up  to  Dossie  instead;  I  have  hardly 
spoken  to  her  to-night." 

Dossie  slept  in  a  little  room  next  to  her  father's.  As  he  softly  opened 
the  door  she  started  up  in  bed  with  an  exclamation  of  delight.  A  pale 
misty  moonlight  crept  through  the  uncurtained  window,  and  lighted  up 
faintly  the  little  pale  face  and  long  fair  hair. 

"  How  is  it  you  are  awake,  my  darling?  Do  you  know  it  is  past 
eleven?" 

"  Yes,  but  I  was  thinking,  and  it  is  so  cold,"  shivering  as  she  crept 
into  her  father's  arms.  "  Has  that  nice  man  gone?  He  is  such  a  nice 
man,  father.  He  has  got  such  a  kind  voice,  and  his  eyes  laugh  so,  and 
he  looks  so  happy,  much  happier  than  other  people." 

"  Oh.  he  was  always  like  that.     Yes,  he  is  a  good  fellow.     I  am  glad 


22  ONLY    THE    OOYEKXESS. 

to  h-ive  seen  him  again,  and  now,  1 '  i  must  go  to  sleep.     Have 

yon  prayed  for  poor  fall, 

"  <  Hi,  yes;  I  m.'viT  in:  b>ng  prayer  for  you,  and  a  short  one 

for  mother  and  Johnnie  and  Willie— just  (Jinl  bless  them  that  the. 
not  feel  forgotten  or  neglected;  there  IS  no  harm  in  that,  fat! 

"  !No  li:inn  at  all,  darling.      Ten,  even  in  Paradise,  would  be  all  the 
happier  to  know  her  little  -ill  blessed  her  every  night;  let  no  on« 
suade  you  that  it  ean  be  wrong.     1  have  not  taught  you  niueh,  1> 
1  was  never  as  good  as  your  dear  mother,  but  as  long  as  you  say  your 
prayers  and  re;ul  the  Bible  she  left  you,  you  can't  do  amiss." 

father,  dear,  I  know  3-011  often  tell  me  so.     Do  you  read  your 
Bible  ' 

"  Well,  you  see,  I  am  often  too  busy,"  stammered  Jack:  how  could 
he  tell  his  child  that  he  had  never  opened  it  since  Pen's  death?     When 
lie  and  1  )ossie  went  to  church  together  he  would  be  thinking  of  a  hun- 
dred other  thin.-  ;he  sermon;  he  only  went  for  the  child's 
and  to  help  her  find  her  places  in  the  big  prayer-book.     "  Whal 
good  of  it  all?"  he  would  say  to  himself;  "  1  have  never  been  sure  of 
anything  since  Pen  died.     I  never  had  much  religion,  and  the  little  I 
-ed  is  buried  with  her.     '  We  shall  meet  again,  Jack.     1  could 
not  die  happily  and  not  believe  that,'  that  was  what  she  said,  the  dar- 
ling, but  how  is  one  to  know  that?" 

4 '  Go  to  sleep.  Dossie,"  he  continued,  unwilling  to  carry  on  th 
versa tion,  and  the  child  lay  down  obediently  and  let  him  cover  her  up. 
The  touch  of  the  little  cold  hands  rather  haunted  Jack  when  h 
back  to  his  own  room. 

"  She  wants  her  mother,  poor  little  thing.  Pen  would  never  have  let 
her  go  to  bed  cold;  she  is  delicate  and  excitable,  and  her  circulation  i* 
slow.  I  must  take  her  for  a  walk  to-morrow  when  I  have  linishcd  my 
work,"  and  with  this  resolution  he  fell  asleep. 


CHAPTER  IV. 
IN  THE  EDITOR'S  ROOM. 

As  we  become  more  truly  humau,  the  world  becomes  to  us  more  truly  divine.— 
DOCTOR  MOORE. 

To  be  a.  physiognomist,  in  regard  either  to  the  face  of  nature  or  the  face  of  m.-m, 
needs  accordingly,  first  that  we  be  great-souled,  else  we  can  not  possibly  coi 
the  greatness  of  that  we  contemplate.    No  bad,  conceited,  or  affected  man  ca  i 
be  a  phj'siognomist. — GRINDON. 

ONE  afternoon  about  a  week  after  his  visit  to  28  Wenvoe  Road, 

Launcelot  Chudleigh  walked  briskly  down  one  of  those  quiet  streets 

leading  out  of  the  Strand.     The  weather  was  still  bitterly  cold, -March 

wore  its  lion-like  aspect,  and  certainly  at  the  present  moment  showed 

no  intention  of  developing  its  lamb-like  qualities;  the  wind  was  in  the 

north,  the  heavy  atmosphere  predicted  a  fall  of  snow  before  morning, 

and  already  a  few  particles   were   falling;  the   faces  of  many  of  the 

passers-by  had  a  nipped,  exasperated  expression,  as  though  they  bore  a 

•  grudge  against  the  weather.     A  few  of  them  looked  enviously  at 

the  trim,  alert   figure  in   the   foreign   overcoat.     Launcelot  walked'  on 

:itedly:  he  was  quite  impervious  to  the  cold;  the  inward  glow  of  a 

ulent   purpose   was   keeping   him   warm.       His   j., 

rapid,  and  few  men  could  have  kept  up  with  him;  and  as  he  walked, 
his  quick   bird-like  E  ;->  scan  face  after  face,  half  curiouw- 


OKLY    THE    GOVERNESS. 

ly,  half  sympathetically.  The  study  of  human  nature  was  a  passion 
with  Launcelot,  a  crowd  delighted  him;  the  city  with  its  surging  musses, 
its  business-like  proclivities,  its  never-ceasing  procession  of  eager, 
thoughtful  men  all  bent  on  one  pursuit,  and  all  hurrying  as  though  the 
moments  were  precious  as  sifted  gold,  was  like  a  vast  treasure-house  to 
him,  where  priceless  stores  of  human  activities  and  human  inu 
were  laid  up.  Launcelot  had  no  hermit-like  qualities;  in  spite  ^of  many 
inward  resources,  he  would  have  been  miserable  in  any  fertilized  soli- 
tude. Waller's  lines  would  have  been  exactly  true  of  him: 

"  Hadst  thou  sprung 
In  deserts  where  no  man  abide. 
Thou  must  have  uncommended  died." 

Life,  movement,  ceaseless  work,  and,  if  possible,  constant  change  of 
ideas,  were  as  necessary  to  Launcelot  as  the  air  he  breathed ;  it  was  a 
favorite  speech  of  his,  that  so  few  men  knew  how  to  live,  tlu-y  simply 
existed.  To  him  life  was  almost  overpowering  in  its  intense  interest, 
"and  one  would  think  some  fellows  had  two  or  three  lives  to  throw 
away,"  he  would  say,  "  they  seem  to  care  so  little  what  they  do  with 
themselves;"  and  yet  we  shall  never  be  young  again,  and  time  is  pass- 
ing  quickly  with  all  of  us. 

The  street  into  which  he  had  turned  was  a  very  quiet  one,  and  was 
chiefly  occupied  by  publishers,  charitable  associations,  and  agencies  for 
various  companies. 

Launcelot  stopped  abruptly  before  a  house  with  "Imperial  Review 
Office  "  written  on  the  door,  walked  into  the  office,  and  asked  a  gniy- 
haired  clerk  if  Mr.  Thorpe  were  disengaged.  On  receiving  an  answer 
in  the  affirmative,  1m  knocked  at  the  door  of  the  editor's  room,  and, 
hardly  waiting  for  permission  to  enter,  took  off  his  hat  and  marched  in. 

A  gentleman  who  was  writing  by  the  window  looked  up  at  him  anil 
nodded. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Chudleigh?    Punctual  to  a  minute,  I  see.     If  you 
will  allow  me,  I  will  just  finish  this  letter  and  then  it  will  be  of!  my 
mind.     There  is  to-day's  copy  of  the  'Imperial,'  if  you  will  ai 
yourself  for  five  minutes." 

"  All  right,"  was  the  laconic  reply,  and  Launcelot  threw  himself  down 
in  an  arm-chair  by  the  fire,  but  though  he  took  the  paper  he  did  not 
once  glance  at  it.  His  eyes  traveled  round  the  room,  with  its  business- 
like litter,  the  big  editor's  table,  covered  witji  letters,  documents,  papers, 
magazines;  then  his  attention  wandered  to  the  thoughtful,  absorbed 
face  opposite  to  him. 

Mr.  Thorpe  was  about  his  own  age,  perhaps  a  year  or  two  older;  a 
quiet-looking,  gentlemanly  man,  without  any  pretensions  to  good  looks, 
with  the  sort  of  face  one  would  hardly  notice  in  a  crowd,  for  there  was 
nothing  to  strike  an  observer,  no  special  or  marked  characteristic.  There 
aie  hundreds  of  faces  of  which  one  could  say  this,  quiet,  self-contained, 
unattractive  faces  that  somehow  fail  to  elicit  any  attention.  The  fore- 
head was  good  and  showed  intellectual  power,  but  the  eyes  were  rather 
a  cold  gray.  The  lower  part  of  the  face  was  somewhat  long  and  nar- 
row, and  the  firmly  closed  lips  gave  one  the  impression  that  Mr.  Thorpe, 
though  a  clever  man,  was  slightly  prejudiced  in  his  ideas  and  given  to 
hold  his  opinions  tenaciously.  No  doubt  he  would  be  hard  in  his  judg- 
ments and  at  no  time  so  brimming  over  with  the  milk  of  human  kind- 
ness as  the  man  who  occupied  his  arm-chair;  in  fact,  they  were  com- 
plete contrasts,  for  Mr.  Thorpe  loved  silence,  and  was  fonder  of  solitude 
than  of  most  men's  company. 


24  ONLY    THE  f-SS. 

Launcelot  watched  him  la/.ily  as  ho  dashed  off.  his  letter,  put  5' 
its  envelope,  rang  the  bell  and  desired  the  mi  to  take  it  ?it  om> 

to  its  destination,  and  then  crossed  the  room  and  took  a  chair  ' 
Launeelot,  As  lie  stood  ereet  for  a  moment  one  could  see  that  h. 
not  tall  but  his  figure  Was  good,  lie  was  extremely  thin,  but,  tl; 
pale  and  somewhat  worn,  there  was  no  look  of  ill  health  about,  hin 
voiee  was  low-pitched  for  a  man,  but  very  distinct,  and  he  prouo 
his  words  slowly  and  with  precision. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  have  kept  you  waiting,"  he  began,  "  but  Mullins  has 
let  me  in  for  a  troublesome  bit  of  business.     What  disagreeable  w< 
— biting  as  January;  I  expect  we  shall  have  a  downfall  of  snow  before 
many  hours  are  over.     "Well,  I  think  I  have  heard  of  a  berth  for  your 
friend;  at  least  something  has  turned  up  that  may  suit  him." 

"Ah,  I  knew  I  had  come  to  the  right  man,"  returned  Launeelot. 
"  Let  me  hear  all  about  it,  Thorpe." 

"  Well,  it  may  not  suit  him,"  was  the  cautious  reply,  "  but  anyhow 
it  is  the  only  thing  that  offers  just  now.  Have  you  ever  heard  me  speak 
of  Xeale? — it  used  to  be  Crosbie  &  Ncale,  of  Blackf riars,  but  the  firm 
failed,  and  they  have  dissolved  partnership.  It  is  young  Xeale  I  mean, 
Alfred:  he  is  going  to  cut  the  whole  concern:  he  can't  get  on  with  his 
brother,  a  queer  sort  of  customer,  I  should  say.  Well,  Alfred  Neale  is 
going  out  to  South  Australia.  A  large  sheep-farm  has  been  o: 
him.  The  owner,  a  friend  of  his,  wants  to  get  rid  of  it — has  made  his 
fortune,  I  believe.  He  has  some  money  to  invest  and  it  promises  to  be 
a  good  thing,  and  he  wants  another  man  to  go  out  with  him  and  be  a 
soft  of  partner.  Alfred  is  not  a  bad  iello\v;  he  never.liked  olKcc  work 
an  1  lie  was  always  crazy  for  colonial  Jife,  but  he  is  steady  as  men  go — 
only  sociable  in  his  nature.  He  says  ff  it  would  not  be  a  risky  sort  of 
thing  and  that  no  girl  would  put  up  with  the  life,  he  should  like  to  take 
a  wile  out  with  him,  but  of  course  he  would  not  have  the  face  to  pro- 
pose such  a  thing  to  any  young  lady;  so  he  wants  a  pleasant,  com- 
panionable fellow  who  will  be  useful  and  pay  his  share." 

"  Yes,  I  see/'  replied  Launeelot,  doubtfully;  "  but  South  Australia — 
it  is  a  great  distance — I  am  not  sure  what  my  man  would  say  to  that." 

"  Ah,  people  don't  think  much  of  the  distance  now.  1  have  known 
several  men  who  went  there  and  back  for  a  mere  pleasure  trip.  Times 
have  changed  in  this  respect,  Chudleigh." 

"  Ah,  but  there  is  a  child  in  the  case,  that  makes  all  the  difference. 
Bachelors  like  you  and  me,  Thorpe,  can  not  enter  into  a  father's  feel- 
ings;" but  here  he  stopped,  for  a  shadow  crossed  Mr.  Thorpe's  fa 
shadow  so  marked  that  Launeelot  could  not  but  be  struck  with  it. 

"  Go  on,  Chudleigh,"  observed  the  other,  somewhat  impatiently,  ar, 
though  vexed  at  Launcelot's  inquiring  look;  "there  is  a  child  in  the? 
case,  you  say." 

"  Yes,  a  little  girl;  this  adds  to  the  difficulty,  and  he  dotes  on  her, 
poor  fellow.  I  think  your  friend  would  like  Weston,  he  is  good-nat- 
ured and  companionable,  and  has  many  good  points,  but  trouble  and  ill 
luck  are  playing  the  very  deuce  with  him;  not  that  there  is  much 
amiss,"  as  Mr.  Thorpe  looked  up  rather  sharply  at  this  "  lie  is  weak 
and  careless,  and  since  his  \vife  died  he  has  let  himself  drift  a  bit,  but 
we  can  alter  all  that,  Change  of  scene  and  change  of  occupation  will 
be  his  best  cure.  His  pictures  do  not  sell,  and  lie  is  getting  .sick  of  hi*-' 
brushes  and  palettes,  lie.  is  a  big,  broad-chested  fellow,  with  a  fist  that 
could  fell  ;ui  ox.  He  would  make  a  splendid  navry." 

"  We  must  «ee  what  Neale  says;  the  two  men  ought  to  meet  and  d>* 


tKLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  25 

cuss  matters.     There  is  no  time  to  lose;  Neale  wants  to  be  oft  next 
month." 

"Ail  right,  I  will  see  Weston  about  it  this  evening.  Now  about 
terms  and  outfit,"  and  then  he  and  Mr.  Thorpe  plunged  into  details. 

"It  is  not  a  great  sum,"  observed  Launcelot,  when  they  had  fully 
discussed  every  point;  "  he  could  easily  be  induced  to  take  it  as  a  loan. 
He  is  a  sort  of  connection,  so  it  is  all  in  the  family." 

"  And  you  intend  to  lend  it  to  him  yourself,"  inquired  Mr.  Thorpe, 
fixing  his  cold,  gray  eyes  on  Launcelot's  face  with  rather  an  inscrutable 
expression.  "  Few  men  would  be  so  generous  to  a  mere  connection." 

"  Pooh!  it  is  nothing;  I  shall  not  miss  it.  To  be  sure,  the  boys  cost 
a  great  deal,  especially  Geoffrey,  but  as  long  as  I  remain  a  bachelor 
there  is  enough  and  to  spare  for  all  of  us. ' ' 

"  Your  brother  Geoffrey  is  to  be  a  barrister,  I  hear?" 

"  Yes,  he  is  eating  his  dinners  and  reading  hard ;  he  is  a  clever  fel- 
low, and  will  make  his  mark  by  and  by.  They  are  all  fine  fellows  and 
give  me  very  little  trouble;  it  would  be  odd  if  I  minded  any  outlay  for 
them 

"  Surely  they  are  not  dependent  on  you,  Chudleigh;  excuse  me,  but 
you  know  I  take  a  great  deal  of  interest  in  your  affairs." 

"  Well,  no:  of  course  my  step  mother  has  a  proper  provision  made 
for  her  and  her  children  by  my  father's  will,  and  a  small  sum  has  been 
set  apart  for  each  of  them,  girls  as  well  as  boys,  but  it  would  hardly  be 
sufficient  for  all  they  want— boys  are  extravagant,  and  my  step-mother 
has  never  been  known  to  refuse  them  anything.  I  very  soon  had  to 
take  things  into  my  own  hands;  my  step-mother  could  not  even  manage 
her  own  income.  Now  she  has  everything  she  wants  for  herself  and 
the  girls,  and  never  troubles  herself  to  inquire  whether  our  united  funds 
will  besir  the  outlay." 

"  Humph,  I  rather  doubt  the  wisdom  of  this  sort  of  family  arrange- 
ment," returned  Mr.  Thorpe,  with  a  sarcastic  smile.  "  Supposing  you 
were  to  marry,  Chudleigh,  and  wanted  to  bring  your  wife  to  the 
Witchcns,  how  would  your  step-mother  and  her  daughters  like  to  turn 
out?" 

"  I  am  not  sure  that  I  should  ask  them  to  turn  out:  there  are  other 
houses  to  be  had  besides  the  Witchens.  I  could  keep  my  studio,  arid— 
pshaw!  it  is  idle  to  enter  into  this  sort  of  detail.  I  must  first  find  the 
wife,  and  then — "  but  here  he  paused  again,  for  the  same  inexplicable 
cloud  rested  ou  his  friend's  face.  But  before  he  could  finish  his  sen- 
Mr.  Thorpe  interrupted  him. 

"  Wait  a  moment,  Chudleigh,  please;  I  want  to  say  something.  1  let 
nn  assertion  of  yours  pass  uncontradicted  just  now,  and  it  seems  hardly 
fair  and  honest.  You  said  we  were  both  bachelors.  I  know  you  have 
always  thought  so,  but  you  are  wrong.  I  am  a  married  man." 

Launcelot  stared  at  him  incredulously,  and  it  was  evident  from  his 
expression  that  his  friend's  statement  had  given  him  an  unpleasant 
shock.  They  were  somewhat  new  acquaintances;  a  year  ago  they  had 
not  known  of  each  other's  existence,  but  a  strange  tie  united  them, 
cementing  the  few  months'  friendship  with  the  intimacy  of  years. 
Launcelot  had  saved  Mr.  Thorpe's  life  at  the  peril  of  his  own,  and  he 
Knew  from  that  day  that  in  spite  of  outward  coldness  and  much  differ- 
ence of  opinion,  Ivan  Thorpe  loved  him  like  a  brother. 

And  now  he  had  kept  his  married  life  a  secret  from  his  friend!  No 
wonder  Launcelot,  who  was  frank  and  open  as  the  day,  felt  himself  a 
little  aggrieved. 


2G  ONLY    THF, 

"  I  always  meant  to  toll  yiv.i."  went  on  Mr.  Thorpe,  speaking  in  the 
same  slow,  precise  way.  ';  1  always  told  Rachel  that  I  wished  you  to 
know,  but  somehow  one  defers  an  unpleasant  communication  even  tu 
our  closest  t'rieiul.  My  wife  has  left.  me.  " 

"  Indeed!"  returned*  Launcelot,  still  more  shocked,  but  hardly  know- 
ing how  to  express  his  sympathy. 

"It  was  what  people  call  incompatibility  of  temper.  Our  natures  did 
not  suit — at  least,  she  said  so.  She  was  very  unhappy,  vory  undisci- 
plined,  and  she  wanted  to  go  away.  I  let  her  go;  there  was  not  much 
comfort  in  the  house  while  she  stayed,  she  and  Rachel  did  not  : 
together.  She  was  young,  and  our  ways  did  not  suit  her.  There;  was 
no  scandal,  she  just  went  back  to  her  people — that  is  all.  I  thought 
perhaps  she  would  come  back,  but  she  has  never  done  so." 

"  And  you  let  her  go?"  exclaimed  Launcelot,  half  indignantly.  He 
was  quite  bewildered  by  Mr.  Thorpe's  manner;  he  had  spoken  in  short, 
abrupt  sentences,  with  a  pause  between  each,  as  though  each  word  were 
weighted  with  lead.  There  was  no  anger,  no  sorrow  perceptible  in  his 
manner:  he  rather  spoke  as  though  the  matter  concerned  some  other 
man.  He  was  a  little  pale,  and  there  was  a  look  of  hardness  about  his 
mouth,  that  was  all. 

"  Of  course  I  set  her  free  when  she  told  me  the  life  was  killing  her  by 
inches,"  was  the  impassive  answer.  "  Would  you  have  me  keep  a 
woman  against  her  will?  She  was  in  the  wrong,  she  was  always  in  the 
wrong,  but  she  would  not  own  it.  We  were  better  apart:  one  has 
peace,"  and  here  there  was  a  caught  breath,  almost  like  a  sigh.  "  You 
will  keep  this  to  yourself,  Chudleigh.  I  am  a  stranger  in  your  parts, 
and  there  is  no  need  for  idle  gossip.  I  wished  you  to  know,  that  is  all 
I  have  to  say." 

"  One  moment,  Thorpe,"  and  Launcelot  spoke  impulsively;  "  I  am 
awfully  sorry  for  you,  old  fellow.  I  never  dreamed  of  trouble  like  this. 
I  never  could  have  imagined  you  were  a  married  man  Perhaps  it  will 
come  right  some  day.  Of  course  you  correspond  with  her?" 

"  Not  now;  her  letters  always  made  me  angry.  Rachel  writes  some- 
times; at  least,  I  think  so,  but  I  am  not  sure.  Nothing  makes  an  im- 
pression on  her,  she  has  no  sense  of  duty.  I  gave  it  all  up  long  ago. : ' 

"  But— but— you  must  have  cared  for  her  or  you  would  not  have  mar- 
ried her,"  returned  Launcelot,  growing  more  puzzled  every  minute. 

"  She  was  young  and  poor,  and  very  beautiful — at  least  I  thought  so, 
but  I  am  no  judge;  yes,  I  suppose  I  cared  for  her  once,  but  she  has  no 
heart.  A  woman  can  not  have  any  heart  when  she  leaves  a  good  hus- 
band. I  always  did  my  duty  by  her,  Rachel  says  so." 

"  Good-bye,"  interrupted  Launcelot,  hastily.  "  I  am  very  sorry — I 
am  indeed.  I  will  come  and  see  you  again,  Thorpe,  either  here  or  at 
Riversleigh,  but  I  must  go  now."  Lauucelot  had  no  pressing  engage- 
ment, but  he  felt  as  though  the  atmosphere  of  the  room  would  choke 
him;  it  positively  irritated  him  to  listen  to  those  short,  dry  sentences 
which  seemed  to  deal  with  a  woman's  happiness  as  though  it  were  a 
block  of  wood;  the  leisurely  clipping  away  of  facts,  the  hard,  concise 
statements  without  a  touch  of  feeling  in  voice  or  manner,  were  more 
than  he  could  bear;  another  time  he  would  go  into  it,  if  Thorpe  wished 
it,  but  he  had  heard  enough  for  the  present. 

Mr.  Thorpe  did  not  seem  to  notice  this  repressed  impatience:  he  held 
out  his  hand  rather  solemnly. 

"  1  .shall  always  be  glad  to  see  you,  Chudleigh;  there  is  no  man  whose 
friendship  I  value  as  I  do  yours;  and  as  you  know  you  are  a  prims 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  27 

favorite  with  Rachel,  and  she  is  hard  to  please,  like  the  rest  of  hor  sex, 
yon  can  not  come  too  often;  but  remember,  this  is  to  be  a  sealed  sub- 
ject between  us." 

"  Do  you  mean  we  must  not  speak  of  it  again  even  between  our- 
selves?'' 

"  That  is  my  meaning,  certainly.  I  can  not  talk  over  my  wife  with 
another  man.  Rachel  has  been  my  only  confidante,  but  all  the  same  I 
wished  you  to  know;"  and  then  again  they  shook  hands  solemnly,  and 
Launcelot  went  down  the  long  passage  and  let  himself  out  into  the 
street  with  the  look  of  perplexity  still  in  his  face. 

It  was  odd  that  his  first  connected  thought  was  "  Poor  Mrs.  Thorpe, 
I  pity  her."  Strange  that  in  the  first  instance  his  sympathy  should  be 
with  the  woman  who  had  plainly  deserted  her  path  of  duty  instead  of 
resting  with  the  deserted  husband,  but  Lauucelot  was  a  creature  of  im- 
pulse, and  very  warm-hearted,  and  he  had  felt  himself  repelled  by  the 
other  man's  coldness.  "He  is  a  good  fellow,"  he  reflected,  "a 
thoroughly  good  fellow,  and  I  ought  to  know;  but  I  do  not  believe  he 
has  an  ounce  of  passion  in  his  nature.  They  are  both  worthy  creatures. 
I  have  not  a  word  to  say  against  him  or  Miss  Rachel.  I  like  her  less 
than  him,  but  then  he  is  my  friend;  still  a  young,  undisciplined  nature, 
perhaps  with  a  hasty  temper  attached  to  it,  would  meet  with  scant  sym- 
pathy from  either  of  them.  Depend  upon  it,  Miss  Rachel  had  a  hand 
in  making  her  sister-in-law  wretched.  I  am  sorry  for  the  girl,  I  am  in- 
deed; and  yet,  poor  old  Thorpe,  I  am  sorry  for  him  too;  there  was  a  sort 
of  hopelessness  in  his  voice,  not  exactly  pain,  it  was  too  frigid  for  that, 
but  as"  though  some  experiment  on  which  he  had  set  his  heart  had  failed, 
and  the  disappointment  was  a  heavy  one.  Halloo,"  pulling  himself  up 
abruptly  at  this  point,  and  stopping  in  the  middle  of  the  crowded  pave- 
ment, to  the  confusion  of  the  busy  passers-by,  "  what  is  the  matter,  my 
little  man?"  to  a  ragged  urchin  who  was  crying  bitterly,  and  gazing 
distractedly  into  the  road;  and  as  the  boy  did  not  seem  to  hear  his  ques- 
tion, he  put  his  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

The  child  turned  round  in  affright,  evidently  expecting  "  the  peeler  " 
had  got  hold  of  him;  then,  reassured  by  Launcelot's  friendly  expression, 
he  blubbered  out — 

"  Please,  sir,  some  cove  has  been  and  shoved  all  my  matches  into  the 
road,  and  the  'osses  have  scrunched  them,  and  he  never  gave  me  noth- 
ing, he  didn't,  and  father's  in  the  hospital,  and  baby's  bad,  and  mother 
and  none  of  us  have  had  anything  to  eat  to-day." 

"  Oh,  they  all  say  that,"  observed  an  old  gentleman  who  was  passing, 
"  and  they  expect  us  to  believe  it." 

"  But  what  if  it  be  true?"  returned  Launcelot,  quietly.  He  still  had 
hold  of  the  boy,  and  seemed  perfectly  indifferent  to  the  fact  that  a, 
small  crowd  had  collected.  A  butcher-boy  and  a  sweep  were  trying  to 
pick  up  a  box  or  two  between  the  horses'  feet,  but  the  child  only  shook 
his  head  and  sobbed  afresh. 

"  They  are  scrunched,  and  I  ain't  sold  one.  The  cove  took  and 
pushed  me.  '  Out  of  my  way,  you  little  beggar,'  he  says,  and  I  warn't 
begging,  and  1  tripped  up,  and  the  matches  went,  and  mother  said  I 
was  to  be  careful. ' ' 

"  Where  does  your  mother  live?"  asked  Launcelot,  looking  down 
into  the  dirty,  tear-stained  face,  that  was  very  thin  and  sharp.  He  was 
a  small,  stunted  creature,  miserably  clad  and  neglected  looking,  arid  yet 
with  an  air  of  innocent  childhood  about  him  that  one  rarely  sees  in  the 
precocious  city  Arab. 


28  OXLY   Tin:   HOVKKNESS. 

"  Please,  *ir,  we  ain't  lived  anywheres  since  father  was  took  to  tha 
hospital.      We  was  sold  up,  and  we  only  sleeps  at  places  so  inuHi  a 
night  or  in  the  casual.     Mother  is  there,  under  the  arch,  with  Sn 
baity.     Mother  sells  llowers,  but  she  has  got  her  basket  still  full  - 
ig  to  snow,  and  coves  won't  stop  to  buy." 

"  Come  with  me,  boy.     I  want   to  speak  to  your  mother;  she  shall 
not  scold  you.     I  will  tell  her  some  one  pushed  you;"  but  ;> 
Launcelot  saw  the  woman's  face  he  did  not  fear  a  torrent  of  viti; 
tion.     She  was  a  weak,  miserable-looking  creature,  still  quite  young. 
She  was  evidently  too  much  engrossed  in  trying  to  feed  her  sickly 
b  iliy  with  a  dry  crust  which  she  had  obtained  somehow,  and  had  di 
between  the  children,  to  notice  the  accident.     The  other  child,  a  black- 
eyed  little  girl  of  three  or  four,  held  out  her  crust  for  her  broti 
see.     "I've  dot  some  bread,  Tim;  come  and  have  a  bite,"  she  said, 
pushing  it  toward  him. 

"  Your  little  boy  has  had  a  misfortune,"  began  Launcelot,  with  the 
courtesy  he  always  showed  to  the  poorest  vagrant — manners  cost  noth- 
ing, and  go  a  long  way,  he  used  to  say.  "  Some  careless  person  knocked 
against  him  and  upset  his  matches  in  the  road."  But  as  the  poor  creat- 
ure looked  up  from  her  fruitless  endeavor  to  push  the  crust  into  her 
baby's  mouth,  for  the  child  only  spluttered  and  refused  the  hard,  dis- 
tasteful food,  he  continued,  with  a  quick  change  of  tone,  "  You  all  look 
very  cold,  and  Tim  says  you  are  hungry.  There  is  a  coffee-tavern  just 
by  here;  if  you  will  come  with  me  I  will  give  you  a  meal." 

"  God  bless  you,  sir;  it  would  be  a  kind  act,  for  we  are  near  starv- 
ing," returned  the  woman,  sheltering  her  baby  carefully  under  her  thin 
shawl  and  giving  her  basket  to  Tim. 

"  Ah,  you  will  soon  feel  better,"  observed  Launcelot:  but  he  said  no 
more,  only  conducted  his  strange  guests  through  the  friendly  swing 
door,  and  established  them  at  a  small  table  beside  a  blazing  tire. 

"  Now,  there  is  no  hurry.  I  am  going  to  leave  you  to  enjoy  your 
meal,"  he  said,  presently,  when  he  saw  them  served  with 'cups  of 
smoking  coffee  and  piles  of  bread  and  butter.  He  had  ordered  some 
warm  bread  and  milk  for  the  baby,  and  noticed  with  pleasure  that  the 
mother  fed  the  famished  little  creature  before  she  tasted  food  herself, 
and  yet  her  cheeks  were  hollow  with  famine.  "  Thank  God  the  moth- 
erhood has  not  died  out  of  her  heart,"  he  said,  inwardly,  and  then  aloud, 
"  Let  the  children  have  some  cake  when  they  have  finished  the 
and  butter,  Mrs.  Martin.  I  am  going  away  for  a  short  time,  but  I  will 
be  back  before  they  have  done,"  and  as  the  brisk  little  woman  behind 
the  counter  nodded  in  reply  Launcelot  left  the  shop  and,  walkii 
about  a  hundred  yards,  dived  down  another  side  street,  quieter  than 
the  one  where  the  "  Imperial  Review  "  office  was  situated. 

"It  is  just  handy  for  the  present  case,"  he  muttered,  and  then  In- 
stopped  before  a  dingy-looking  house,  on  the  inner  door  of  which  was 
written,  "  Charitable  Association  for  the  Employment  of  Women  and 
Children,"  and,  turning  the  handle,  he  found  himself  in  a  small,  private 
booking-office,  with  a  partition  dividing  it  in  two,  and,  passing  behind 
the  screen,  encountered  the  inquiring  glance  of  a  quiet,  lady-like  woman 
who  was  writing  at  a  lartre,  square  table. 

"  Mr.  Chudleigh!"  with  a  slight  accent  of  surprise  in  her  voi 

"  Yes,  Miss  Thorpe.  Please  excuse  my  abrupt  entrance,  but  I  hure 
a  family  round  the  corner  for  whom  I  wish  tc  bespeak  your  kindnaw." 


OKLY    THE    GOVEKNESS.  29 


CHAPTER  V. 

LAUNCELOT 's  PROTEGEES. 

The  quality  of  mercy  is  not  strained- 
It  clroppetn  as  the  gentle  rain  from  heaven 
Upon  the  place  beneath.    It  is  twice  blessed: 
It  blesseth  him  that  gives  and  him  that  takes. 

SHAKESPKARE. 

Miss  THORPE  looked  quietly  amused  as  Launcelot  blurted  out  this 
abrupt  statement,  but  she  was  evidently  accustomed  to  his  impulsive 
ways. 

"  A  whole  family!  I  wonder  at  your  courage,  Mr.  Chudleigh,  espe- 
cially after  our  late  experience — and  yet  there  was  only  a  boy  in  that 
case/' 

"  Oh,  there  is  a  boy  now,"  he  returned,  in  rather  a  crest-fallen  man- 
ner, for  lie  did  not  care  to  be  reminded  of  his  failures;  every  one  is  duped 
now  and  then,  he  thought.  "  A  boy  and  a  girl  and  a  baby,  without 
counting  the  mother,  and  I  think  you  will  say  you  have  never  seen  a 
more  wretched  lot.  They  are  at  the  coffee-tavern  round  the  corner. 
Will  you  see  them  there,  or  shall  I  fetch  them  here  to  the  office?" 

"  I  think  I  would  rather  see  them  here;  but  there  is  no  hurry  for  a 
few  minuses,  is  there?  I  should  very  much  like  to  finish  this  report; 
it  will  not  take  me  more  than  ten  minutes,  and  then  I  will  interview 
your  protegees." 

Miss  Thorpe  spoke  with  the  quick,  decided  air  of  a  busy  woman  who 
has  not  a  minute  to  lose,  and  Launcelot,  who  knew  her  well,  wasted  no 
more  words,  but  applied,  himself  to  the  task  of  replenishing  the  fire. 

Miss  Thorpe  was  at  least  ten  or  twelve  years  older  than  her  brother, 
to  whom  she  bore  a  strong  resemblance,  but  she  had  greater  claims  to 
good  looks;  and  while  Mr.  Thorpe,  with  his  quiet,  well-bred  manners, 
seldom  made  a  strong  impression  at  first  on  strangers,  Miss  Thorpe  at- 
tracted a  great  deal  of  attention  from  people  who  were  not  afraid  of  a 
strong-minded  woman,  and,  though  not  a  general  favorite  with  her  own 
sex,  her  opinions  were  always  heard  with  deference. 

She  had  a  refined,  sensible  face  and  great  dignity  of  bearing,  but  a 
physiognomist  or  acute  observer  of  human  nature  would  have  been 
perplexed  by  certain  incongruities  of  feature;  for  example,  the  broad, 
benevolent  forehead  and  pleasant  gray  eyes  were  somewhat  neutral- 
i/.ed  by  the  thin,  firmly  closed  lips  and  determined  jaw;  the  lower  part 
of  the  face  was  elongated  like  her  brother's,  and  reproduced  the  same 
expression  of  tenacity,  approaching  to  hardness. 

Launcelot  and  she  were  011  excellent  terms  with  each  other.  He  had  a 
great  respect  and  admiration  for  her;  but  he  thought  less  of  her  a3 
a  woman  than  of  Mr.  Thorpe  as  a  man,  and  yet  she  invariably  turned 
her  softest  side  to  him. 

But  they  had  had  many  an  argument  together,  arid  Launcelot  had 
soon  discovered  for  himself  that,  though  singularly  upright  and  pure- 
minded,  and  with  a  noble  sense  of  duty,  she  had  narrow  views  and 
strong  prejudices,  and  that  while  she  was  faithful  to  her  friends,  she 
was  bitterly  antagonistic  to  those  who  had  the  misfortune  to  offend  her, 
in  fact,  as  Launcelot  once  said  in  his  dry  way,  "  Miss  Thorpe  is  a 
philanthropist,  but  she  is  hardly  charitable;"  and  though  he  was  never 


30  ONLY   TITE 

like!}' to  incur  hw  severe  judgment  on  his  own  account,  lie  often  ^ 
for  greater  toleration  to  lie  shown  to  less- favored  mortals. 

-  Thorpe's  m.i.-ier-pas>iitn  was  alfection  for  her  brother.     IT< 
her  only  remaining  relative,  and  they  had  never  been  separated.     The 
d'il'erenee  in   their  ages   lent  Something  of   maternal   solicitude  1o  her 

He  kid  been  a  delicate  boy,  and  for  some  years  her  < 
an  anxious  one,  but  as  he  regained  his  health  and  censed  to  ! 
pendent  on  her  for  comfort,  he  never  forgot  how  much  lie  owed  his 

lit  •well-being  to  her  unwearied  care  and  nursing,  and  ;i 
to  manhood,  her  influence  over  him  increased  instead  of  lessened,  and 
"•loin  acted  against  her  advice,  except  ill  the  case  of  his  unfortu- 
nate marriage. 

They  were  both  undemonstrative,  deep-thinking  people,  and  seldom 
made  any  protestation  of  affection;  but  a  profound  sympathy  united  the 
brother  and  sister,  and,  though  iheir  work  in  life  differed,  they  thought 
alike  on  most  points. 

Lauucelot  was  quite  aware  that  Miss  Thorpe  regarded  him  with 
peculiar  favor  as  her  brother's  friend,  and,  in  spite  of  a  tendency  to 
feminine  jealousy,  she  would  allow  him  to  monopolize  Ivan's  company 
to  any  extent.  She  owed  him  too  deep  a  debt  of  gratitude  to  think  any 
such  sacrifice  could  repay  him.  Had  he  not  saved  her  brother's  life 
and  at  the  peril  of  his  own,  and  that  under  terrible  circumstances? 
They  had  met  Launcelot  Chudleigh,  for  the  first  time,  on  the  Engadhie, 
and,  as  it  often  happens  with  traveling  acquaintances,  they  struck  up  a 
rapid  intimacy,  and  made  many  pleasant  excursions  together.  It  was 
on  one  of  these  expeditions,  undertaken  without  a  guide,  that  the  acci- 
dent happened  that  might  have  ended  fatally  for  at  least  one  of  the  party, 
and  which  none  of  the  three  were  ever  likely  to  remember  without  a 
shudder  until  their  dying  day. 

Launcelot  was  assisting  Miss  Thorpe  in  her  search  for  a  particular 
Alpine  plant  which  she  was  anxious  to  add  to  her  collection,  and  which 
grew  in  this  part,  when  a  slight  sound  behind  them  attracted  his  atten- 
tion, and  the  next  moment  he  had  sprung  to  his  feet  with  a  low  ex- 
clamation of  horror. 

There  had  been  no  cry  for  help,  and  how  it  had  happened  no  one  knew; 
perhaps  Mr.  Thorpe  had  gone  too  near  the  edge  of  the  precipice  or  the 
earth  had  slipped;  he  had  been  in  safety  a  minute  before,  and  now  all 
but  his  head  arid  arms  had  disappeared  from  their  view — he  was  literally 
hanging  over  the  terrible  abyss  that  yawned  in  giddy  depths  below  him, 
while  he  clung  for  dear  life  to  a  broken  splinter  of  rock,  on  the  ed 
the.  ravine,  that  might  at  any  moment  be  dislodged  and  uprooted  by  the 
sheer  weight  of  his  body. 

Kven  at  this  moment  of  supreme  and  deadly  peril,  Launcelot  noticed 
two  things,  on  which  he  afterward  commented— first,  that  Ivan  in  his 
despair  uttered  no  cry  for  help,  and  that  his  white  face  and  eyes,  dilated 
with  mental  anguish,  were  fixed  not  on  them  but  on  the  blue  sky  above 
them;  and  secondly,  that  the  moan  that  escaped  Miss  Thorpe's  lips  wus- 
ined  before  it  broke  into  a  scream,  though  other  women  would 
have  rent  the  air  with  unavailing  shrieks. 

"  Hold  fast,  for  God's  sake!"  Launcelot's  lips,  parched  with  terror, 
could  hardly  utter  the  words;  the  next  moment  he  was  lying  with  his 
f;ire  elo-e  to  the  ,tr round,  moving  warily  toward  the  edge  of  the  clmsm, 
4ill  his  aim  gripped  Ivun's  body,  then  lie  cautiously  wound  his  other 
aim  round  the  splintered  rock. 

I  think  it  will  last  our  time,"  he  muttered;  "  now,  Thorpe,  loose 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  01 

one  *innd  and  hold  me  round  the  neck.  ISIow  then,  let  go  "  An  in- 
stant's ton-ilk.-  strain  on  Ijaimcelot's  part,  an  agoni/ed  eil'orl  on  Ivan's, 
and  the  two  men  were  in  safety,  and  when  Miss  Thorpe,  who  had  tiling 
herself  on  her  knees,  dared  to  look  up,  she  saw  her  biother  lying  sense- 
less  on  tlu-  ground,  and  Launcelot  beside  him.  panting  and  voiceless, 
with  a  carious  gray  look  on  his  face,  too  much  spent  to  do  anything 
but  to  make  a  sign  that  she  could  find  the  flask  of  brandy  that  he  always 
carried  about  him. 

NVlien  Ivan  roused  to  complete  consciousness  he  looked  long  and 
steadily  at  Launcelot. 

"  You  have  saved  my  life,  Chudleigh.  I  do  not  believe  any  other 
man  would  have  done  it;"  and  then,  in  a  husky  tone,  "  and  at  the  risk 
of  your  own." 

"  Pooh!  nonsense,"  returned  Launcelot,  still  very  pale,  and  trying  to 
hide  the  pain  of  his  sprained  arm.  "  I  could  have  done  nothing  with- 
out your  help:  your  nerve  was  splendid.  If  you  had  riot  kept  so  still, 
no  human  power  could  have  prevented  you  from  being  dashed  to 
3;  it  was  real  pluck,  and  no  mistake,  that  made  you  hold  on  and 
do  as  you  were  told.  Mis.s  Thorpe  was  a  bit  of  a  heroine  too,"  with  an 
attempt  at  a  smile;  "  if  she  had  screamed  we  should  both  have  been 
lost;  one  ought  hardly  to  breathe  in  such  a  case,"  finished  Launcelot, 
and  then  he  set  his  teeth  hard  and  tried  not  to  groan. 

M'veitheless,  I  shall  always  feel  that  under  Providence  I  owe  you 
my  life,"  replied  the  other,  quietly,  and  as  he  spoke  there  was  a  sudden 
flash  of  "feeling  in  the  cold,  gray  eyes  that  told  Launcelot  that  the  hid- 
den depths  of  this  man's  nature  had  been  stirred,  and  that  henceforth 
lie  would  ever  regard  himself  as  bis  debtor,  but  the  next  moment  he  said, 
with  a  change  of  tone — 

"  I>y  heavens!  you  are  hurt,  Chudleigh:  you  wince  with  pain,  your 
lips  are  quite  white.  Rachel,  where  is  the  flask?"  but  Launcelot  shook 
his  head. 

"I  do  not  want  brandy  now;  it  is  my  arm  and  shoulder  that  are 
sprained.  You  are  no  light  weight,  Thorpe,  and,  confound  it,  I  believe 
you  have  dislocated  my  neck,"  and  then  he  laughed,  but  immediately 
frowned  with  pain.  "  Let  us  get  back  to  the  hotel;  there  is  nothing  the 
matter  with  my  legs.  Miss  Thorpe,  will  you  give  your  brother  the 
support  of  your  arm,  he  looks  shaky  still?"  but  Ivan  would  not  hear  of 
tins  arrangement. 

Launcelot  walked  on  steadily,  and  every  now  and  then  he  said  a  word 
or  two,  but  the  brother  and  sister  scarcely  answered,  they  only  ex- 
chuimed  looks  of  wonderment.  What  pluck,  what  endurance!  Once 
Rachel  took  her  brother's  hand  and  pressed  it,  and  a  great  tear  rolled 
down  her  cheeks. 

"  But  for  him  I  should  have  no  brother  now,"  site  said,  in  a  low 
voice.  "  Ivan,  I  can  scarcely  endure  even  the  thought." 

"  It  was  almost  miraculous,"  he  returned,  looking  at  the  ground; 
"  no  other  man  could  have  done  it.  A  minute's  hesitation  and  it  would 
have  been  too  late.  I  could  not  have  held  on  much  longer,"  he  paused, 
and  then  went  on  as  though  to  himself.  "  I  had  no  hope:  I  thought  it 
was  all  up  with  me,"  and  then,  with  rather  a  pale  flicker  of  a  smile, 
"  Joan  would  have  been  a  widow.  It  is  rather  a  pity  for  her." 

Miss  Thorpe's  face  grew  stern,  but  she  did  not  answer.  In  her  heart 
she  was  sorry  that  that  name  should  be  mentioned  at  such  a  moment, 
'ijut  just  then  Lauucelot  turned  back  and  made  some  trifling  observation, 
and  there  was  no  more  said  between  the  brother  and  sister. 


32  ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS. 

Launcelot  had  a  very  had  time  for  a  fortnight  after  tin's.     Th< 
located  shoulder  was  a  trille  compared  to  his  sprains,  hut  he  hem- his 
pain  as  cheerily  as  he  could,  and  I  In-  Thorpes  nursed  him  with  un: 
ting  attention  and  devotion,      Rachel  grew  very  fond  of  him;  lie  v, 
excellent  patient,  and  seldom  argued  about  his  treatment,     lie  made 
love  to  her  as  he  did  to  all  -women,  only  in  an  innocent,  brotherly  man- 
ner, that  quite  fascinated  her.  and  she  soon  treated  him  as  she  treated 
Ivan.      A  strong  friendship  between  this  singular  trio  was  speedily 
cemented  in  Launcelot's  sick-room,  and  in  spite  of  the  Thorp, 
and  undemonstrative  manner,  Lanncclot  knew  that  they  would  be  Ids 
friends  for  life.     He  still  preferred  Ivan  to  his  sister,  but  that  w 
cause  his  peculiar  taste  led  him  to  prefer  softer  women.     Ivan's  culture 
and  intellectual  caste  of  mind,  his  varied  knowledge  and  qu; 
pn\ver,  made  him  a  delightful  companion  to  Launeelot;  he  soon  found 
out  he  was  sympathetic  as  well  as  dependable'and  it  was  not  until 
their  interview  in  the  editor's  room  that  Launeelot  discovered  how  little 
Ivan  had  ever  talked  of  his  own  private  affairs,  though  he  had  always 
been  interested  in  all  his  friend's  personal  matters.     Launceloi' 
rested  furtively  on  Miss  Thorpe's  face  as  she  finished  her  report;  the 
words  that  Mr.  Thorpe  had  just  uttered  were  still  sounding  in  hi- 
"she  was  young  and  poor,  and  very  beautiful,  and  —  and    undisci- 
plined."    "  Poor  thing,  what  chance  would  she  have  against  this  calm, 
law-loving,  reasonable  woman?"  thought  Launeelot,  with  a  growing 
pity  for  the  misguided  and  feckless  young  creature  who  had  forfeited 
her  own  rights. 

"  She  and  Rachel  could  not  get  on,"  Mr.  Thorpe  had  added,  in  a 
weary  tone,  that  spoke  of  bitter  and  hopeless  conflicts.  "Of  cour.se 
not,  if  they  were  to  be  true  to  their  separate  natures,"  was  his  internal 
response,  and  as  he  looked  again  at  the  calm,  strong  face,  which,  even 
in  repose,  gave  the  idea  of  an  unflinching  and  despotic  will,  just  then 
Miss  Thorpe  raised  her  head  and  intercepted  this  critical  glance,  with  a 
smile  that  was  very  bright  and  pleasant. 

"  There,  I  have  finished;  how  patient  you  have  been,  not  a  r< 
movement.  Why,  Ivan  would  have  walked  up  and  down  the  room  a 
dozen  times,  but  then  he  never  allows  me  to  keep  him  waiting;  he 
never  will  own  that  it  is  our  feminine  prerogative.  Now,  NT.  Chud- 
leigh,  as  you  have  been  good  enough  to  consult  me,  I  suppose  you  will 
leave  things  in  my  hands." 

"  C'cla  xa  sans  dire.  I  am  quite  aware  of  Miss  Thorpe's  dislike  to  any 
interference,"  was  the  slightly  mocking  answer.  "  Of  course,  I  mean 
to  hold  my  tongue." 

"  Well,  well,  fetch  your  family,  and  let  us  get  it  over,"  was  the 
good-humored  response,  and  Launeelot  needed  no  second  bidding 
The  snow  was  beginning  to  fall  as  he  hastened  down  the  strce: 
made  him  rejoice  that  the  poor  creatures  had  been  fed  and  warmed. 
In  a  few  minutes  he  had  marshaled  them  safely  into  Miss  Thorpe's 
presence,  and  was  listening  with  much  interest  to  her  quiet,  .skillful 
questions. 

The  woman  seemed  willing  enough  to  answer  them;  her  husband  was 

•  rmonger,  she  said,  and  sold  all  sorts  of  greenstuff.     She  could 

not  deny  that  he  drank  sometimes,  though  he  was   not  a  bad  husband 

when   lie  was  sober;  but   they  had  done'  poorly   fur  a   long  time,  and 

things  had  been  going  from  bad  to  worse  when  the  accident  happened. 

()ii  being  croaB-examined  she  at  once  admitted  that  certainly  Ucb  hn<l 
had  a  «lrop  too  much  that  day;  he  was  put  out  at  having  to  part  with 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  33 

the  donkey,  because  they  could  not  afford  to  keep  him,  and  he  had  had 
a  quarrel  with  the  coster  that  bought  him,  but  then  they  had  made  it 
up  and  had  a  glass  together.  It  was  dark  when  he  crossed  the  road, 
and  the  van  knocked  him  over,  but  it  was  no  one's  fault  but  Bob's. 

"To  which  hospital  did  they  take  your  husband?"  asked  Miss 
Thorpe. 

"  To  the  one  in  the  Whitechapel  Road,  please,  my  lady,"  returned  the 
woman. 

"The  London  Hospital:  I  know  the  chaplain,  and  can  easily  make 
inquiries.  I  will  write  to-night."  And,  somewhat  to  her  surprise,  the 
woman's  face  brightened. 

AVrould  she  "ask  the  gentleman,  then,  to  tell  Bob  that  she  and  the 
young 'uns  were  getting  along  somehow?  For  you  see,  missis,"  she 
continued,  "  all  the  worriting  in  the  world  will  not  help  my  master  to 
mend  his  broken  bones;  and  he  is  a  worrier,  is  Bob,  when  he  can't  got 
no  liquor  to  drown  them  sort  of  thoughts." 

Miss  Thorpe  raised  her  eyes  and  looked  at  Launcelot.  "  You  will 
find  it  is  all  true,"  he  telegraphed  back,  and  she  half  nodded;  and  then, 
to  his  great  relief,  he  heard  her  tell  the  woman  that  she  and  the  children 
should  be  sheltered  for  a  night  or  two  at  their  Refuge,  while  inquiries 
were  made.  "  The  poor  baby  looks  very  ill,  and  you  are  far  from  well 
yourself.  If  we  find  you  have  spoken  the  truth,  and  your  husband  is 
really  disabled,  we  shall  try  to  help  you  as  long  as  he  is  in  the  hos- 
pital." And  then,  on  touching  a  hand-bell  beside  her,  a  stout,  middle- 
nged  woman,  with  a  face  very  much  scarred  with  the  smallpox,  entered 
the  room. 

"  Betty,  will  you  show  this  woman  the  way  to  the  Refuge;  I  will  be 
round  in  half  an  hour,"  and  then  with  a  kindly  nod  she  dismissed  them, 
but  Launcelot  patted  Tim's  curly  head  as  he  passed  him,  and  slipped  a 
bright  sixpence  into  his  hand.  "Always  tell  the  truth,  my  boy,  and 
shame  the  devil,"  he  said,  by  way  of  precept. 

"Father's  great  friends  with  the  devil/'  returned  Tim,  with  native 
impudence,  but  his  blue  eyes  looked  wistfully  into  Launcelot's  kind 
face:  "  he  is  always  a-talking  of  him." 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  Tim,  and  don't  treat  the  gentry  to  none  of  your 
emperencc,"  observed  his  mother,  with  a  rough  shove,  a  form  of  argu- 
ment to  which  Tim  yielded.  Launcelot's  eyes  twinkled  as  they  closed 
the  door. 

"I  have  rather  taken  a  fancy  to  that  little  chap.  You  must  not  let 
him  go,  Miss  Thorpe,  he  is  a  jewel  in  the  rough,  is  Tim.  He  is  a  friend 
of  father's,  is  he?  that  is  a  trifle  cutting  to  say  of  one's  parent." 

"  Mr.  Chudleigh,  did  you  notice  Betty  just  now?" 

"  No — yes;  she  was  an  extremely  plain  person." 

"  Ah,  I  was  not  thinking  of  her  looks.  Betty  is  an  important  person 
in  my  eyes — she  is  my  factotum.  I  should  be  lost  without  her,  and  yet 
she  was  only  a  wraif  and  stray  like  this  wroman." 

"  You  don't  say  so!" 

"  I  met  her  in  Hungej-ford  Market.  She  was  starving,  desperate;  all 
her  children  were  dead,  and  she  meant  to  drown  herself  that  night.  I 
took  her  hand — 1  had  no  refuge  then,  and  this  society  was  not  organ- 
ized. 1  was  in  fear  and  trembling  what  Ivan  would  say,  but  ho  did  not 
gay  much.  Betty  was  grateful  and  to  be  trusted,  and  we  have  not 
parted  since;  b^it,  as  you  remark,  she  is  not  handsome,"  finished  Mis-* 
Thorpe,  with  quiet  sarcasm. 

"  You  are  a  good  woman,"  was  the  reply.     "  Thank  you  for  telling 


34  ONLY   Tin:  i-ss. 

me  this;  I  like  to  hear  such  ihi:  a  pleasant  focli 

1  must   go  to  poor  \Veston.     (Juod-bye,  ."Miss  Thorpe,  and  thank 

you  liavc  been  a  real  help  to  me." 

"  She  w  a  good  woman,"  he  repeated,  us  he  again  faced  tlie  driving 
snow;  "  but  what  a  contrast  to  Madellu.     .Mudella  would  have  had  that 
dirty-l'aeed  baby  in  IUT  arms;  she  can  not  look  at  a  baby  "without  Ki 
it.      Miss  Thorpe  is  nut  a  demonstrative  woman;  now  I  come  to  thi: 
it,  I   do   not   believe  she  ever   kissed  her  own  brother;  at  least.  1 
never  seen  her  do  it.     JSonie  brothers  and  sisters  are  like  that,  it  de; 
on  their  bringing  up." 

Launcelnt  had  nearly  reached  Richmond  before  a  certain  cravin- 
void  reminded  him  that  he  had  not  dined,  and  that,  in  fart,  dinne: 
an  unattainable,  luxury  for  this  night,  unless  he  left  his  charitable 
sion  unfulfilled. 

He  had  a  tine,  healthy  appetite,  and  though  he  was  by  no  IM 
dainty  or  fastidious,  he  was  a  little  particular  about  his  food,  and  i 
could  be  brought  to  understand  why  a  man  should  not  enjoy  the 
things  of  this  life. 

"  There  is  a  lot  about  eating  and  drinking  in  the  Bible,"  he  once  ob- 
served, when  one  of  his  sisters  took  him  to  task  for  being  too  material 
in  his  tastes.  "  Those  old  patriarchs  had  a  grand  notion  of  hospitality; 
I  dare  say  roast  kid  wras  a  savory  dish  when  a  man  was  spent  with 
fatigue  and  hunger.  And  then  there  was  the  land  tlowing  with  milk 
and  honey;  well,  I  suppose  people  wrere  to  enjoy  plenty  of  good  thiirj-* 
there."  And  when  an  admirable  example  of  abstineice  was  quoted  by 
another  sister  who  was  a  little  inclined  to  High  Church  views,  he  had 
replied  with  a  fine  scorn:  "  Ah,  I  don't  hold  with  your  medieval  saints 
at  all,  Bee;  why,  would  you  believe  it,"  addressing  the  company  at 
large,  "  that  actually  some  outlandish  bishop  or  other,  who  was  after- 
ward canonized,  was  not  aware  that  he  had  finished  his  poached  • 
but  went  oil  calmly  sopping  his  bread  in  the  water  they  had  been  boiled 
in?  and  Bee  actually  admires  this  ridiculous  absence  of  mind!'' 

41  Ah,  but  he  is  not  telling  the  story  in  an  interesting  way;  it  wa- 
Francis  de  Sales — and — "  but  here  Launcelot  pushed  his  chair 
with  a  derisive  laugh,  and  refused  to  hear  any  more. 

And  now  he  remembered  he  had  lunched  early  on  a  sandwich  and 
of  claret,  intending  to  dine  at  his  club  that  night,     lie  wondered 
what  he  should  have  ordered:  a  fried  sole,  or  some  turbot,  perhaps  and 
some  of  those  excellent  cutlets— they  cooked  cutlets  so  well— and  a 
morsel  of  gorgonzola  to  follow.     Well,  really,  as  the  sense  of  h 
increased,  he  was  not  sure  about  the  cutlets:  a  slice  o1F  the  joint. 
loin  of  beef,  for  example,  would  be  more  satisfying;  and  then  all  at 
he  recalled  the  little  group  ia  the  coffee- tavern,  the  way  the   famished 
children  had  almost  torn  at  the  bread  and  butter.     "  Me  dreil'ul  hun- 
gry," she  had  said,  clutching  a  large  lump  of  plum-cake  in  one  hand 
and  a  half-bitten  slice  in  the  other. 

"  Good  heavens!"  thought  Launcelot,  as  he  recalled  thN  hat 

a  terrible  feeling  it  must  be  to  be  really  hungry!     It  woul  i 
discipline  to  miss  a  meal  now  and  then,  just  to  have  a  taste  of  \\iiai 

ires  sulVer  day  after  day."  and    Launeeloi  shook  In 
a  powdered  with  snow-flakes,  and  knocked  at  2s  AWnvne  i; 

•  for  a  cup  of  weak,  sloppy  tea.  and  a  crust   of  bread   and  !< 

1  the  craving  within,"  he  said  in  himself,  ».  iiuuy 

-  with  a  great  effort. 

a  I  interrupting  you?"  he  tsked,  putting  his  head  into  the  room 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  35 

ftfter  a  preliminary  tap.  Dossie,  who  was  just  then  balancing  a  large 
Britannia  metal  tea-pot  with  great  difficulty,  put  it  down  to  clap  her 
hands,  and  her  father  started  up  from  his  chair. 

*'  Launcelot!  who  ever  would  have  expected  you  on  such  a  night? 
Sit  down,  my  dear  fellow,  and  warm  yourself.  Have  you  dined?  No! 
Dossie,  run  down  to  Mrs.  Slater  and  ask  her  to  make  some  fresh  tea; 
this  is  poor  stuff.  Tell  her  it  must  be  hot  and  strong.  Now,  Launce- 
lot, try  some  of  this  pie;  it  is  not  so  bad.  Mrs.  Slater  makes  famous 
pics,  and  the  steak  is  not  so  tough  as  usual." 

"Tough!  it  is  excellent,"  returned  Launcelot,  falling  to  with  an 
alacrity  that  delighted  his  friend.  Hunger  is  certainly  a  sauce  piquant, 
for  Launcelot  was  ready  to  swear  that  no  steak  pie  had  ever  seemed  so 
delicious.  "  Why  are  you  not  doing  justice  to  it  too?"  he  asked,  for 
Jack's  portion  lay  untasted  on  his  plate.  /- 

"Father  says  he  can  not  eat  to-night,"  returned  Dossie,  anxiously; 
"  his  head  aches,  and  he  can  not  talk  either."  Launcelot  darted  one  of 
his  quick  looks  at  Jack  as  the  child  spoke— was  he  ill,  or  had  anything 
fresh  happened?  He  looked  pale,  haggard,  unshorn,  and  he  seemed  to 
rouse  himself  with  difficulty  to  entertain  his  guest. 

Dossie  seemed  uneasy  about  him,  for  she  watched  him  with  a  grave 
womanish  expression  on  her  pale  little  face.  "  This  is  nice  hot  tea,  la- 
ther; it  will  do  your  head  good,"  she  said,  carrying  the  cup  round  to 
him.  "  Shall  1  toast  you  a  bit  of  bread  my  own  self?"  but  her  father 
only  shook  his  head  with  a  faint  smile. 

"  Never  mind  me,  Dossie,  you  must  look  after  our  friend  here;"  and 
Dossie,  somewhat  sadly,  turned  her  attention  to  her  guest. 

Launcelot  took  no  notice  of  this  little  by-play;  something  was  amiss, 
that  was  evident.  He  was  sure  of  it  when,  after  the  meal  was  finished, 
Jack  called  the  child  to  him  and  whispered  a  word  or  two  in  her  ear. 

Dossie's  lip  drooped,  but  she  uttered  no  audible  protest;  she  went  up 
straight  to  Launcelot  and  offered  him  a  limp  little  hand. 

"  Father  thinks,  as  1  have  a  cold,  Nancy  had  better  put  me  to  bed," 
she  said,  in  a  patient,  small  voice  that  went  to  Launcelot's  heart, 

"Wait  a  moment,  ^my  dear,"  he  said,  putting  his  arm  round  her; 
"  there  is  something  in  the  hall  that  we  must  look  at  together.  May  I 
fetch  it  in,  Jack?  Nancy  can  wait  a  few  minutes,"  and  as  Jack  offered 
no  remonstrance,  Lauucelot  went  out  of  the  room  and  returned  immedi- 
ately with  a  neat,  brown  paper  parcel,  with  "  Miss  Weston  "  written 
on  it  in  large  printed  letters. 

Dossie's  eyes  sparkled,  and  the  blood  rushed  to  her  face. 

"Is  it  for  me — reajly  for  me?"  she  exclaimed,  incredulously.  "  Fa- 
ther dear,  will  you  undo  the  knots?  Ah,  that  is  better,"  as  Launcelot 
produced  a  knife,  "  I  do  hate  knots  so — oh — "  a  long-drawn-out  "  oh  " 
of  ecstasy,  as  the  wrappers  were  removed,  and  revealed  a  beautiful  green 
Russia  leather  writing-case  of  the  most  complete  description,  with  a 
gilt  monogram  "  D.  W."  in  the  center. 

Dossie  was  absolutely  speechless  as  she  regarded  the  treasure.  Launce- 
lot put  the  little  key  in  her  hand  and  made  her  open  it,  and  there  dis- 
played the  numerous  wonders — ivory  pen  and  pencil-case,  paper-knife, 
and  store  of  dainty  paper  and  envelopes,  a  blotting-book,  inkstand,  and 
lovely  gold  scissors. 

"  Father,  oh,  father!"  was  all  she  could  reiterate,  but  Jack,  though 
he  was  moved  by  the  sight  of  hig  child's  pleasure,  shook  his  head  in  a 
disapproving  manner. 


30  ONLY  Tin: 

"This  is  wronjr  of  you,  Launce!  >t,"  he  said,  irravcly;  "  it  is  far  too 
handsome  aiul  cosily  I'.'.r  a  baby.  Why,  it  is  real  Russia  leather." 

"  Tut — nODSensel  1  wanted  Dossie  to  have  something  really  nice.  1 
never  give  cheap  presents  to  young  ladies — "  but  Dossie  interrupted 
him. 

"I  shall  keep  it  all  my  life— it  is  the  very,  very  thin*  I  wan  tod;  a 
teal  writing-case  of  my  own,"  and   then  she  went 
and  put  up  her  face  beseechingly.      "  (  Hi,  1  want  to  kiss  you."  sh, 
"  1  do  want  to  kiss  you  so,"  and  as  Launrelot  bent  over  her,  smiling  at 
her  child-like  simplicity,  she  put  her  arms  round  his  neck.     "  I  think 
you  are  the  nicest  man  next  to  father  that  I  have  ever  Been, "  finished 
Dossie,  as  she  carried  over  her  treasure  to  show  Nancy. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

"DOSSIE  WILL  NOT  FORGIVE  ME." 

My  poverty  and  not  my  will  consents. 

Romeo  and  Juliet. 

"  WHAT  a  pity  we  can  not  always  be  a  child,"  observed  Launeelot,  in 
an  amused  tone;  "such  a  little  gives  them  pleasure.  They  are  the, 
truest  philosophers,  after  all;  one  would  do  well  to  take  a  lesson  out  of 
their  books,"  then  in  the  same  quiet,  matter-of-fact  manner,  "  What's 
up  to-night,  Jack?  You  look  quenched  somehow,  as  though  something 
has  gone  wrong  with  you." 

"  Never  mind;  it  is  safest  sometimes  to  hold  one's  tongue,"  was  the 
gruff  answer. 

"  Least  said,  soonest  mended,  you  mean.  Well,  you  may  be  as  brief 
as  you  like;  brevity  is  the  soul  of  wit.  I  completely  indorse  that  senti- 
ment." 

"  No,  confound  you;  don't  you  see?  I  want  no  questions,"  was  the 
irritated  reply.  "  I  meant  to  tell  you,  and  then  I  changed  my  mind.  I 
don't  believe  you  would  be  a  safe  confidant;  you  are  too — too — "  and 
here  he  hesitated  for  a  word — "  too  soft-hearted." 

"  Oh,  come  now,"  returned  the  other,  cheerfully,  "  I  can  stand  abuse, 
but  there  are  limits  to  everything;  soft-hearted,  I  object  to  that 
phrase;  it  is  like  comparing  me  to  a  worn-out  pincushion.  Soft — no,  I 
am  hard,  hard  as  adamant,"  striking  himself  on  the  chest,  "  except  to 
children;"  but  as  the  other  made  no  sort  of  response  to  this,  he  con- 
tinued more  seriously:  "  Come,  Jack,  I  have  not  deserved  this;  do  I 
look  like  a  man  who  would  fight  shy  of  a  fellow  in  trouble?" 

Jack  raised  his.  heavy  eyes  at  this,  and  a  curious  dimness  crept  over 
them. 

"  Give  it  up,  Lance,"  he  said,  tremulously,  going  back  unconsciously 
to  the  old  boyish  name.  "  Don't  mix  yourself  up  in  my  alTairs.  I  am 
not  fit  company  for  a  fellow  who  has  kept  himself  straight  all  his  life. 
I  am  a  black  sheep,  and  all  the  washing  will  not  make  me  v\hite.  I 
Lave,  made  a  mess  of  my  life,  as  I  told  you,  and  now  things  have  come 
h  a  pass  that  1  may  as  well  lling  up  the  game  " 

"  Humph,"  thoughtfully,  "  I  never  could  see  how  that  is  to  be  done, 
ir  pictures  won't  sell,  eh?" 

"  No,  the  dealer  says  In;  has  had  enough,  and  that  the  last  lot  hangs 
on  hand.  1  think  I  told  you  that  bHore.  1  have  been  to  over  so  many 
men,  and  they  all  say  tlie  same  that  my  pictures  are  not  what  they 
used  to  be.  What  am  I  to  do?"  finished  Jack,  in  a  tragic  voice,  that 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  3? 

was  nevertheless  very  pathetic.  "I  have  broken  into  my  last  sover- 
eign, and  there  is  the  child,  and  how  am  I  to  go  and  hang  myself?" 

"  Ah,  true,"  was  the  equable  answer.  "  Dossie  would  make  that  a 
very  inconvenient  mode  of  proceeding,  because  you  see  a  man  can  not 
go  decently  out  of  the  world  and  leave  his  child  to  starve  or  go  to  a 
work-house — no,  no,  that  would  be  very  un-English  and  uugentlemau- 
ly." 

"  Ah,  confound  it  all!"  returned  poor,  sore-hearted  Jack,  "  can't  you 
answer  a  fellow  seriously  when  he — he  is  broken-hearted?"  and  here 
somelhiug  like  a  sob  or  an  oath,  or  a  mingling  or  both,  rose  to  his  lips; 
"  fancy  Pen's  little  girl  in  a  work-house! 

"  Chut,  man,  a  mere  figure  of  speech.  Now  fet  us  leave  tragedy  and 
confine  ourselves  to  commonplace.  You  are  in  what  the  Yankees  call 
'a  fix '  at  the  present  moment;  the  money- supply  has  stopped;  your 
wares  are  a  drug  in  the  market;  you  owe  perhaps  a  trifle  of  rent." 

"  Only  a  week.     Mrs.  Slater  would  not  allow  me  longer  credit." 

"Ah,  a  sensible,  business-like  woman.  I  rather  respect  her  since  I 
have  eaten  half  that  pie.  Well,  Jack,  things  seem  pretty  bad;  indeed, 
they  could  hardly  look  worse,  from  your  point  of  view.  Now,  I  have  ;i 
proposition  to  make:  drop  your  paint-brush,  and  take  to  sheep-farming 
in  Australia." 

Jack  frowned  and  pulled  his  beard  impatiently. 

"  Are  you  in  your  senses?"  he  asked,  mirthfully.  "  I  never  thought 
you  particularly  practical,  but  still  I  should  have  imagined  that  any  one 
not  a  child  would  have  known  something  in  the  shape  of  capital  is  re- 
quired for  that  sort  of  tiling.  There  is  the  voyage  and  the  ouliit,  nut 
to  mention  the  buying  of  sheep,  and  a  few  other  items." 

"  Oh,  1  know  all  about  it;  but  I  am  perfectly  serious,  I  assure  you. 
There  is  a  berth  open  to  your  acceptance,  if  you  will  only  be  man 
enough  to  take  it,"  and  in  a  quiet,  distinct  voice,  that  was  not  without 
its  soothing  influence  on  the  half-bewildered  Jack,  he  laid  the  whole 
plan  before  him. 

"  It  will  be  a  loan,  and  you  can  easily  repay  it  iri  three  or  four  years, " 
lie  continued;  "  it  will  be  just  the  life  to  suit  you,  Jack,  for  you  were 
always  given  to  roving.  Neale  is  a  pleasant  fellow,  they  say— sociable 
and  open-handed.  I  should  think  you  would  chum  excellently  together. 
Come,  strike  while  the  iron  is  hot;  you  will  not  get  such  a  chance  as 
this  every  day." 

"It  is  the  first  that  has  ever  been  offered  to  me,"  returned  the  other, 
slowly.  "  I  should  be  a  fool  to  say  no,  but,"  with  a  quick  change  of 
tone,  "  how  about  Dossie?  It  would  be  rather  a  rough  life  for  my 
little  girl." 

"  My  dear  fellow,  what  are  you  thinking  about?  Dossie — do  you 
suppose  two  men  could  hamper  themselves  with  the  care  of  a  child  ? 
Neale  would  not  hear  of  such  a  thing  for  a  moment.  There  is  a  house, 
to  be  sure,  rather  a  rough  one,  but  there  is  not  another  within  ten 
miles;  the  shepherd's  wife  has  a  hut  close  by,  but  she  would  hardly  be 
the  sort  of  woman  to  take  care  of  a  young  lady." 

"  No,  no,  I  see  it  would  never  do.  Dossie  would  grow  up  rough  and 
uneducated,  and  with  Neale — no,  of  course  it  would  never  answer. 
Why  did  you  propose  such  an  impossible  scheme?  Launcelot,  I  really 
thought  for  the  moment  that  it  would  be  a  solution  to  my  difficulty." 

"  You  are  right  there;  it  will  be  a  turning-point  in  your  life.  I  mean 
you  to  go,  but  you  must  leave  Dossie  behind." 

•lack  almost  sprung  from  his  chair.    "  Leave  Dossie,  never!"  he  said 


38  ONLY   Tin: 

in  a  voice  so  loud  anil  angry  that  it  would  have  daunted  any  other  man, 
but  Launcelot  mere!  •  him  and  went  on. 

"  You  have  not  heard  me  to  the  end— in  i'aet  you  d<> 
the  situation.     Of  course  you   miM   leave  Dossie  in    Kim-land.      Your 

•  ill   not   be  worse  than  many  Indian  ollicers,   wl, 

with  their  children.     During  the  few  year-  you  are  out  there  sou  will 
"rkin«r  and  making  a  home  for  her.      I>y  the  time  si  mirh 

to  be  your  housekeeper,  you  will  come  back  with  money  in  your  j 
to  enjoy  your  hard-earned  rest.1' 

"But— btit  the  child?"  staring  at  him.     "Would  you  1. 
away  and  break  Dossie's  heart':" 

"Children's  hearts  do   not    break   so  easily,"   returned    Lau 
calmly.      "  Don't  glare  at  me  as  though  you  thought  me  a  brute. 
am  thinking  of  the  child's  good  as  well  as  yours.'    Dossie  will   fret   at 
first,  for  she  is  absolutely  devoted  to  you,  but  Madella  will  soon  contrive 
to  make  her  happy." 

"  Delia?     What  has  my  sister  to  do  with  it?'" 

"  Why,  Dossie  will  go  to  the  Witchens,  of  course,"  was  the  : 
answer.      "  It  will  be  her  home  until  you  have  one  ready   for  her. 
Don't  trouble  yourself  about  Madella;  she  does  whatever  1  tell  her.    Do 
you  think  she  would  not  be  kind  to  your  motherless  child?     Why,  the 
thing  will  work  admirably  all  round,"  he  continued,  with  animation. 
"  Sybil  is  only  two  years  older  than  Dossie,  and  very  backward  and 
childish  for  her  age,  so  they  will  do  their  lessons  together.     Miss  ' 
tcr  is  an  excellent  governess,  and  makes  Sybil  very  happy.     They  will 
have  masters  besides,  so  Dossie  will  be  quite  an  accomplished  young 
lady. ' ' 

But  Jack  could  bear  no  more.  He  pushed  his  chair  back,  and  walked 
hurriedly  up  and  down  the  room. 

"You  mean  well,  Launcelot,  and — and  it  is  an  awful  temptation," 
he  said  at  last,  bringing  out  his  words  with  difficulty.  "  I  should  like 
to  make  a  fresh  beginning,  but  it  can  not  be  done.  I  must  find  work 
in  England.  Dossie  has  never  been  away  from  me,  and  Pen— IV, 
I  must  take  care  of  her.  You  do  not  understand,  but  I  believe  it  would 
break  both  our  hearts  to  have  the  ocean  between  us." 

Launcelot  was  silent  for  a  few  minutes,  and  then  he  said,  quietly, 
"  You  must  not  decide  now,  Jack;  you  must  think  it  over.  After  all. 
there  are  some  things  a  man  must  settle  for  himself  God  forbid  that  I 
should  meddle  with  you  or  your  child,  but  " — with  a  pause  that  spoke 
volumes — "do  not  throw  away  lightly  such  a  chance,  for  1)« 
sake." 

His  words  seemed  to  arrest   Jack's   attention;    his  reslless  strides 
ceased,  and  he  stood  still  for  a  moment. 

"  For  Dossie's  sake!    What  do  you  mean?    Am  I  not  giving  it  all  up 
just  for  the  child's  good?" 

"  No,"  was  the  reply.     A  very  decided  No.   • 

"  But  I  am  "— angrily.     "  I  am  keeping  my  promise  to  Pen,  and  try 

do  my  duty  by  her  child." 

I  am  quite  sure  you  mean  to  do  so,  but  do  you  think  any  mother — 
and  especially  such  a  loving  one  as  you  describe  her  i  ;ld  be 

'•d  with  the  life  your  child  leads?     How  arc  VOM  to  help  it  i 
keep  her  with  you?     You  must  work,  and — pardon  m<  must 

ed.      She   has   no   one   to   teach  her.      She  is  Crowing  up  prr- 

fttive    for  \v;mt   o!  womanly  training;  and    IK.-. 
you  to  give  her  a  good  education?     Do  you  think  her  mother  would  not 


ONLY    THE    GOVE11NESS.  30 

be  far  more  contented  to  know  she  was  leading  a  regular  healthy  life 
with  other  children  under  Madella's  tender  care?  No,  Jack— do  not 
deceive  yourself;  do  not  mistake  selfishness  for  love.  It  is  for  Dossie's 
good  that  you  should  go,  and  for  her  good  also  that  she  should  be  left 
behind." 

It  cost  Launcelot  an  effort  to  say  all  this,  with  Jack's  miserable  eyes 
fixed  on  him.  But  it  was  his  duty  to  speak  plainly.  Had  his  words 
gone  home?  He  rather  thought  so  from  the  expression  on  Jack's  luce, 
though  he  only  flung  himself  petulantly  into  his  arm-chair  when 
Launcelot  had  finished. 

"  I  can  not  talk  any  more  about  it— it  makes  me  sick.  I  will  think  it 
over;  and — and  when  will  you  come  again?" 

"  To-morrow  evening  about  half  past  eight.  Will  that  suit  you?'1 
returned  Launcelot,  taking  the  hint  and  putting  on  his  overcoat  with 
cheerful  alacrity.  His  manner  conveyed  no  impression  that  he  was 
hurt  by  this  abrupt  dismissal,  or  thought  Jack  somewhat  selfish  to  de- 
mand 'the  sacrifice  of  another  evening.  Launcelot  had  his  friend's  in- 
terest too  much  at  heart  to  take  heed  of  such  things.  But  Jack  recol- 
lected himself  in  time. 

"I  have  no  right  to  be  troubling  you  like  this — making  you  tramp 
down  here  in  all  weathers.  Is  there  anywhere  where  I  can  speak  to 
you— at  your  club?  Or  shall  I  write?— though  I  am  not  much  of  a 
hand  at  a  letter." 

"  No,  no;  I  will  run  down  just  for  an  hour — I  shall  think  nothing  of 
it.  And,  Jack,  don't  trouble  to  wait  tea;  I  shall  have  dined  "  (a  mental 
resolution  to  that  effect  was  entered  on  the  tablets  of  his  memory  even 
at  that  supreme  moment).  "  Good-night,  old  fellow!  I  wish  I  were 
leaving  you  more  comfortably." 

"  Oh,  it  is  not  your  fault,"  was  the  dreary  answer.  "  I  have  made 
my  bed,  and  must  lie  on  it."  And  then  he  accompanied  his  gm 
the  door.  Launcelot  looked  back  at  him  as  he  went  down  the  steps. 
lie  was  standing  on  the  threshold,  staring  out  at  the  whirling  snow,  un- 
ions that  the  soft  white  particles  were  powdering  his  brown  beard. 
AVlmt  a  handsome  fellow  he  was,  thought  Launcelot;  big  and  strong 
and  powerful.  And  then,  oddly  enough,  an  old  nursery  doggerel  came 
into  his  head — 

"  This  is  the  man,  all  tattered  and  torn, 
Who  married  the  maiden  all  forlorn.1" 

"Poor  Pen!  poor  little  Dossie!  and  above  all,  poor,  unstable  Jack!" 
finished  Launcelot,  as  a  great  wave  of  pity  surged  up  in  his  heart  for 
the  man  he  had  left.  Perhaps  if  he  had  seen  Jack  sitting  motionless 
and  still,  staring  into  the  black  ashes  until  half  the  night  had  gone,  he 
would  have  felt  still  more  sorry  for  him. 

For  even  a  weak  man  fights  a  fierce  battle  sometimes,  and  is  only  over- 
come by  the  repeated  assaults  of  the  enemy,  and  though  Jack  was  y 
reprobate  in  many  people's  eyes,  he  had  his  good  impulses,  his  honest 
purposes  of  amendment,  like  other  men,  and  was  never  so  completely 
overcome  of  evil  that  he  did  not  remember  and  cherish  the  good  lessons 
that  had  been  taught  him;  and  many  a  rigid  Pharisee,  whose  nature 
had  not  tempted  him,  would  have  been  incapable  of  the  blind  devotion 
and  tender  idolatry  lavished  by  Jack  on  his  motherless  child. 

"  She  loved  much,"  was  spoken  of  a  great  sinner,  of  one  who  had 
drunk  deeply  of  the  dregp  of  sin;  and  may  we  not  with  trembling  hope 
believe  of  many  a  poor  prodigal,  that  omniscient  lovo  sees  the  good  that 


40  OKLY     THE     OOVV.  TINT 

lies  between  the  strata  of  evil;  the  poor,  feeble  striving,  so  quieklv 
choked,  for  a  better  life;  the  half-paralyzed  efforts— the  dumb  cry  lor 
another  chanee,  for  help,  for  deliverance?  Alas  for  us,  for  "The  first 
.shall  be  last  and  the  last  first  "  was  certainly  spoken  by  One  \vho  knew 
the  hearts  of  men. 

Liiuucelot  was  very  busy  all  the  next  day.  lie  went  up  to  his  club 
in  St.  James's  Street  early  in  the  morning  to  read  the  papers  and  write 
his  letters— a  very  usual' habit  of  his  when  he  was  not  at  work  in  his 
studio,  for  he  loved  the  bustle  of  the  West  Knd,  especially  at  the  begin- 
ning of  the  season;  and,  as  he  said,  his  friends  always  knew  where  to 
find  him. 

One  of  his  letters— a  long,  chatty  one— was  directed  to  Mrs.  Clmd 
leigh,  Villa  Campanini,  MenTone,  but  from  the  first  page  to  the  last  lie 
made  no  mention  of  Jack  Westou.     The  other  letter  was  much  shorter, 
but  seemed  to  cost  him  a  great  deal  of  thought,  for  he  frowned  over  it 
with  a  dissalisiied  air.     "I  think  I  have  laid  it  on  pretty  well,"  h 
to  himself,  as  he  wrote  the  address—"  Bernard  Chudleigh,  Magdalene 
College,  Oxford,"  but  the  next  moment  his  face  relaxed:  "  Poor  old 
Bear — we  were  all  young  once,"  and  he  slipped  a  check  into  the  en- 
velope in  rather  a  hasty  manner,  as  though  he  were  ashamed  of  the 
action. 

After  this  he  went  to  lunch  with  a  friend  who  had  chambers  in 
Jermyn  Street,  and  spent  a  pleasant  hour  listening  to  the  discussion  of 
two  literary  men  on  the  necessity  of  an  international  copyright  and  some 
sort  of  society  or  association  for  the  protection  of  authors.  When  he 
had  quite  exhausted  the  subject,  he  sent  for  a  hansom,  and  had  himself 
conveyed  to  Waterloo;  there  he  sent  off  a  telegram,  and  then  took  a 
ticket' for  Chelsea. 

An  acquaintance  of  his,  a  rising  artist,  was  to  exhibit  his  new  picture 
to  a  few  friends,  and  afternoon  tea  was  provided  for  their  refreshment. 
Launcelot  had  already  seen  the  picture,  but  he  always  enjoyed  tin-so 
little  gatherings,  and  he  liked  to  flirt  in  a  harmless  way  with  his  friend's 
sister— a  handsome  young  widow— who  presided  over  the  tea-table  on 
these  occasions. 

It  was  rather  a  picturesque  scene.  Outside  the  sun  was  shining  on 
the  crisp  snow,  "as  though  it  were  January  instead  of  March/'  ob- 
served Mrs.  MacDonald,  with  a  shiver,  but  the  great  logs  were  burning 
cheerily  on  the  hearth,  round  which  the  ladies  were  grouped  in  their 
furs  and  velvets. 

Ferguson,  Launcelot's  friend  and  host,  moved  among  them  in  his 
brown  velvet  coat  and  a  hot-house  flower  in  his  button-hole;  the  picture 
stood  on  its  great  easel  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  and  a  tall,  striking 
looking  brunette  in  a  dark-red  mantle  was  standing  before  it  with  the 
air  of  a  devotee. 

"It  is  perfectly  lovely,  Mr.  Ferguson,"  she  said,  folding  her  slim 
hands  together  and  looking  at  him  with  expressive  eyes.  "  That  girl's 
face  is  beautiful.  I  am  sure  it  will  haunt  me." 

"  A  girl's  face  will  haunt  one  sometimes,"  returned  Mr.  Ferguson, 
lightly,  but  there  was  a  certain  meaning  in  his  tone,  for  the  girl  colored 
and  turned  away.  "  Estelle,  have  you  some  tea  for  Miss  Graham?  I 
am  going  to  fetch  her  some.  Look,  this  chair  will  just  suit  you.  Miss 
Graham,"  dragging  out  a  heavy,  black  carved  Indian  chair.  "  It  was 
good  of  you  Lo  enliven  my  studio  with  that  choice  bit  of  color,"  with 
an  approving  glance  at  the  mantle.  "  One  of  these  days  I  want  you  to 
me  i'or  Eleanor  in  the  scene  with  fair  Rosamond. 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  41 

Launcelot  listened  to  tin's  little  conversation  with  inward  amusement. 
Ferguson  was  hard  hit,  he  thought,  and  certainly  Edna  Graham  was 
handsome  enough  to  satisfy  even  an  artist's  fastidious  taste;  and  then 
he  looked  round  the  studio  with  its  beautiful  collection  of  cabinets  and 
choice  china.  The  curtains  were  real  Utrecht  velvet,  costly  skins  lay 
on  the  dark,  stained  floor.  Mrs.  MacDonald  poured  out  fragrant  tea 
into  lovely  old  Worcester  cups.  Ferguson  had  plenty  of  money,  and 
his  pictures  always  sold;  and  then  Launcelot  thought  of  poor  Jack  in 
his  shabby  coat,  with  that  fixed,  miserable  look  upon  his  face.  "  Poor 
beggar,  it  does  seem  hard,"  he  muttered,  as  he  turned  to  the  tea-table, 
and  was  welcomed  by  a  beaming  smile  from  the  fair  widow. 

It  was  late  when  he  left  Clieyne  Walk,  and  Launcelot  walked  briskly 
to  the  station  and  soon  found  himself  en  route  for  Richmond.  When 
he  arrived,  he  went  to  a  quiet-looking  hotel,  and  ordered  a  cutlet  and 
a  small  bottle  of  claret,  and  while  the  cutlet  was  being  cooked,  he  went 
to  the  bar  to  inquire  for  his  telegram.  It  was  handed  to  him  at  once. 
"  Quite  correct — husband  dying.  Deserving  case  for  our  society — 
Rachel  Thorpe."  "All  right:  I  was  sure  of  it,"  was  Launcelot 's  in- 
ternal comment,  as  he  went  back  to  the  coffee-room.  "  Tim,  my  lad, 
the  chaplain  has  his  work  cut  out  for  him;  it  is  time  that  father  of 
yours  gave  up  his  companion,  the  devil — not  a  choice  friend  for  a  death- 
bed, Tim,"  and  he  shook  his  head  and  prepared  to  enjoy  his  cutlet. 

It  was  a  little  after  half  past  eight  when  Nancy  admitted  him  in  her 
usual  fashion,  by  slamming  the  street-door  behind  the  visitor,  and  duck- 
ing her  head  in  the  direction  of  the  parlor.  "  He's  in,  and  I've  just 
tooked  tea  away,"  observed  Nancy  as  she  clattered  down-stairs. 

Launcelot  knocked  gently,  and  then  opened  the  parlor-door;  they  had 
evidently  not  heard  him.  Jack  was  sitting  before  the  fire  with  Dossie 
on  his  knee;  the  child's  arms  were  round  his  neck  and  her  face  buried 
on  his  shoulder.  Something  in  their  attitude  made  Launcelot  say  to 
himself,  "  He  is  going,  and  she  knows  it;"  but  he  came  forward  in  his 
usual  manner. 

"  Halloo,  Jack,  are  you  both  asleep?"  he  exclaimed,  cheerfully. 

"  Dossie  is  going  to  sleep,  I  believe,"  returned  Jack,  with  an  uneasy 
look  in  the  child's  face.  "You  will  ask  Nancy  to  put  you  to  bed, 
won't  you,  darling — eh,  what?"  as  Dossie  whispered  something  in  his 
ear.  "  Oh,  yes,  I  will  come  and  say  good-night  the  last  thing;  but  you 
must  be  asleep — mind — there — shake  hands  with  Launcelot.  I  declare, 
}TOU  were  going  to  forget  him  altogether." 

"Never  mind,  I  will  forgive  her,"  replied  Launcelot,  patting  the 
little  hand  kindly,  but  it  went  to  his  heart  to  see  that  she  never  raised 
her  eyes  or  spoke  to  him,  and  that  her  hand  lay  loose  and  unrespon- 
sive in  his. 

"  She  thinks  it  is  my  fault— that  I  am  robbing  her  of  her  father,"  he 
thought,  a  little  bitterly,  for  he  cold  not  tear  to  be  misunderstood,  even 
by  a  child;  and  he  watched  her  slow,  listless  movements  rather  wist- 
fully. She  had  not  been  crying,  but  she  looked  pale  and  heavy  as 
though  she  were  stunned. 

"  Well,"  drawing  a  long  breath,  as  the  door  softly  closed  upon  her 
retreating  figure,  "  well,  Jack?" 

"  Oh,  you  know!"  returned  the  other,  in  rather  a  forced  manner. 
:'  That  child's  face  has  told  you;  she  took  it  like  a  lamb,  though — never 
shed  a  tear.  '  Of  course  you  know  best,  father. '  Upon  my  word,  I 
felt  like  that  old  patriarch,  Abraham,  when  he  was  going  to  stick  the 
knife  into  his  lad's  throat,"  went  on  Jack,  with  a  miserable  laugh;  "  it 


OXLY     TTTE     OOYTflX  : 


,  i,  ui_-b<it—  (hero  is  no  ram  in 
tin-  thi.  k<  !  i  •- 

it  out  his  hand  and  grasped  Jack. 
-oing,  tin 

•m;l  it!  and  confound  you  too!  Look  here,  Lance,  I  did 
not  sleep  a  \vink  last  night  —  not  a  wink  —  and  T  never  touched  a  drop 
until  I  had  made  up  my  mind;  I  just  sat  here  and  had  it  out  with  my- 
self and  Pen." 

"  Pen?"  looking  at  him  narrowly,  nntil  his  eyes  grew  misty  and  he 
•liged  to  turn  them  away. 

"Ay.  'Pen,  poor  little  sweetheart  I  could  see  her  plainly,  hut  of 
course  I  am  meaning  no  nonsense:  she  was  sitting  there,  but  it  WHS 
only  in  my  thoughts  1  could  see  her.  She  wore  her  little  gray  gown, 
and  L  could  see  her  blue  eyes  looking  at  me,  half  gently,  half  sadly. 

1  P>e  a  good  man,  Jack,  for  Dossie's  sake.     She  will  soon  ha've  no 
one  hut  you;  do  your  best  for  her,  dear:  make  her  as  happy:, 
can.  '    Ah,  I  could  hear  those  words  quite  plainly;  she  really  spoke  them 
a  few  weeks  before  she  died." 

"Yes—" 

"  Well,  I  thought  it  all  out,  and  your  words  seemed  to  hold  me  some- 
how; you  seemed  to  think  Dossie  was  neglected  and  precocious:  'Do 
you  think  her  mother  would  not  be  more  content  to  know  she  was  lead- 
ing a  regular  healthy  life?'  that  was  what  you  said.  '  Do  not  mistake 
selfishness  for  love;  it  is  for  Dossie's  good  that  she  should  be  left  be- 
hind.'" 

"  Well?" 

"  Well,  I  believe  you  are  right;  it  is  selfishness.  It  just  breaks  my 
heart  to  part  with  the  only  creature  in  the  world  who  loves  me  and  never 
gives  me  a  reproachfuriook.  But  it  is  for  Dossie's  good,  and  1  mean 
to  go;  I  will  see  Neale  to-morrow." 

"  Jack,  let  me  shake  hands  with  you  again.  You  are  a  fine  fellow! 
I—  I  —  respect  you."  But  Launcelot  found  it  necessary  to  stir  the  tire 
somewhat  loudly  after  this. 

"  Delia  will  look  after  the  child,  you  say?"  asked  Jack,  with  the  pale 
glimmer  of  a  smile  at  hearing  such  words  applied  to  him. 

"Madella?    I  should  think  so.     Listen  to  me,  a  moment,  Jack      My 
people  are  away,  as  you  know,  but  they  will  be  back  soon;  < 
going  to  fetch  them.     I  do  not  mean  to  write  about  things.     You  know 
of  old  how  little  flurries  Madella;  she  would  drive  the  girls  and  h 
crazy  in  her  hurry  to  get  home.     There  is  plenty  of  time;  at  leasi. 
if  it  comes  to  the  worst,  and  you  have  to  leave  England  before  they  are 
back,  Dos.sie  will  be  all  right.     I  know  some  people,  intimate  friends 
of  mine,  who  wiil  look  after  the  child;  and  when  Madella  arri 
will  just  take  Dossie  by  the  hand  and  say,  '  Jack  has  sent  you  his  little 
girl,  and  he  wants  you  to  keep  her  until  he  comes  back.'     Well,"  with 
still  greater  animation,  "  can  you  see  the  tableau?    Madella,  with  the 
running  down  her  face,  and  Dossie  in  her  arms:  'Jack's  child! 
oh,  how  I  mu*t  love  her  for  him.'     Why  I  can  hear  her  say  it,  bless 
you.     I  know  all  Madella's  little  ways  by  this  time,"  went  on  Launce- 
lot, cheerfully,  pretending  not  to  see  the  tears  standing  in  the  poor  fel- 

"  I  \\\>\)  1  could  have  seen  Delia;  she  was  always  kind.  Do  you 
think  Neale.  would  wait  a  little?" 

"  Oh,  we  will  see  about  that  to-morrow.  There  are  heaps  of  things 
to  be  done:  £ieale  to  interview,  outfit  to  be  ordered,  and  a  host  of 


ONLY     THE     <U)V.KK.NESS.  43 

arrangements.  Don't  trouble  about  Dossie.  Miss  Thorpe  and  her 
brother  will  look  after  her,  and  they  live  only  two  miles  from  the 
W lichens,  so  I  could  see  Dossie  every  day  and  take  her  out  I  do  not 
waul  to  write  to  Madella  for  fear  Bee  might  make  a,  fuss.  Girls  give  a, 
let  ot  trouble  sometimes,  and  Bee  is  a  bit  meddlesome.  '  Hold  your 
tongue,  mi-s,  your  mother  will  do  as  I  tell  her,'  that  is  how  1  manage 
lice:  and  my  lady  tosses  her  head,  and  never  ventures  to  say  a  word. 
Slit;  is  a  good  girl,  is  Bee,  only  she  likes  to  have  a  finger  in  tin-  pie." 

Launcelot  was  rattling  out  nonsense  to  give  Jack  a  chance  of  recover- 
ing himself,  but  by  and  by  he  said  seriously— 

""Jack,  I  am  awfully  obliged  to  you  for  not  disappointing  me.  I 
could  see  no  other  way  of  helping*  you  and  Dossie.  I  do  believe  with 
God's  blessing  you  will  turn  the  corner  now,  and  be  a  credit  to  us  all. 
There,  I  won't  bother  you  any  more  to-night.  Come  up  to  the  club  to- 
morrow morning,  and  \ve  will  see  Neale.  Thorpe  says  we  shall  find 
him  in  anytime  from  three  to  six;  you  shall  lunch  with  me,  and  we 
will  go  together.  There  is  my  card;  remember  1  :•!()  sharp." 

"  Very  well,"  returned  Jack,  "I  will  look  you  up,  if— if,"  with  a, 
rueful  smile,  "  you  are  not  ashamed  of  my  shabby  coat,"  but  Launce- 
loi's  reply  to  this  was  only  a  hearty  grasp  of  the  hand. 

"  Thank  Heaven  that  is  over!"  he  muttered,  as  he  walked  briskly 
down  the  silent  street;  and  then  oddly  enough  he  thought  of  the  little* 
cold  hand  that  had  lain  so  loosely  in  his. 

"  Dossie  will  not  forgive  me,  I  am  afraid,"  he  said  to  himself,  rather 
sadly,  as  he  turned  into  the  station. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

VOICES    OP    COMFORT. 

Life's  more  than  breath,  and  the  quick  round  of  blood; 

"Tis  a  great  spirit  and  a  busy  heart. 

We  live  in  deeds,  not  years;  in  thoughts,  not  breaths; 

In  feelings,  not  in  figures  on  a  dial. 

We  should  count  time  by  heart-throbs.    He  most  lives 

Who  thinks  most,  feels  the  most,  acts  the  best. 

Festus. 

JACK  WESTON  was  true  to  his  word,  and  kept  his  appointment  most 
punctually,  and  as  Launcelot  saw  him  from  the  window  of  his  dub 
walking  down  St.  James's  Street,  he  felt  that  hy  should  not  be  ashamed 
to  be  seen  in  his  company  anywhere.  In  spite  of  the  old-fashioned  cut 
of  his  coat,  and  that  suspicious  shininess  about  the  seams,  "  there  was 
an  air  of  indefinable  distinction  and  good  breeding  about  Jack  that 
marked  a  gentleman,"  though  perhaps  it  might  be  added,  a  gentleman 
who  had  seen  better  days,  and  who  was  obviously  on  the  shady  side  of 
life. 

When  Launcelot  went  to  bed  that  night  he  told  himself  that  he  was 
satisfied  with  his  day's  work,  and  that  Jack  had  shown  a  great  deal  of 
pluck.  "There"  is  plenty  of  good  stuff  in  him  if  one  can  only  get  it 
out,"  he  thought  "  I  like  a  man  who  goes  straight  at  a  thing."  The 
interview  with  the  Xeales  had  been  very  satisfactory;  the  younger 
brother  Alfred  had  evidently  taken  to  Jack  at  once.  Indeed,  Jack's 
handsome  face  and  careless  good  nature  made  him  a  general  favorite. 
The  two  men  were  complete  opposites.  Alfred  Xealfc  was  an  awkward, 
high-shouldered  man,  with  reddish  hair,  and  a  singularly  plain  face,  but 
his  voice  was  pleasant,  and,  in  spite  of  a  slight  hesitation  in  his  speech, 
there  was  something  frank  and  agreeable  in  his  manner  that  made  peo- 


ONLY     THK    INVERNESS. 

pie  forget  his  defects.  It  -was  said  of  him  that  he  never  lost  a  friend  or 
made  an  enemy,  and  Launcclot  felt  intuitively  that  he  was  one  to  be 
trusted. 

The  busii  <>on  settled,  Launcelot  putting  in  a  word  now  and 

then.     Jaek,  who  had  been  very  cool   and  collected  the  whole  time, 

only  once  looked  unea-y,  when  the  younger  Neale  had  asked  it'  he  could 

dy  to  .-tart  in  a  fortnight's  time,  but  Lauucclot  had  answered  for 

him  without  a  moment's  hesitation. 

"Oh,  there  will  be  no  difficulty  about  that;  Nicholson  Wright  will 
do  the  whole  thing  for  us.  1  shall  take  "\Vcston  there  to-morrow." 
Then  as  Jack  looked  at  him  significantly  he  continued;  "  Oh,  I  will 
answer  for  it  that  my  people  will  1x3  back  in  ten  days'  time.  (Jcoll 
means  to  start  to-morrow  evening,  and,  as  I  told  you,  I  can  easily  square 
matters  with  the  Thorpes."  and  with  this  .lack  seemed  satisfied. 

l>nt  when  they  went  out  in  the  street  together  he  said,  rather  abrupt- 
ly, "  1  must  say  Neale  took  me  somewhat  aback  just  now:  1  expected 
to  have  al  least  another  mouth  in  England;  but  when  one  has  to  make 
a  painful  wrench,  it  is  as  well  to  get  it  over,"  and  Lauucelot  agreed 
very  heartily  with  this. 

Dossie  had  not  once  been  mentioned  between  them,  but  just  before 
they  parted  Launeelot  asked  after  her. 

"  Oh,  she  does  not  say  much,  but  she  looks  pale;  she  looks  very 
pale,"  returned  Jack,  hurriedly. 

"  Poor  little  thing!"  and  then  Launeelot  added,  cheerfully,  "Look 
here,  Jack,  you  must  go  to  Singleton  and  have  a  good  photograph  taken, 
cabinet  size,  and  we  will  put  it  in  a  smart  frame,  and  give  it  to  her  by 
and  by,  and — and  " — frowning  prodigiously,  "  there  was  a  pug  puppy 
1  saw  the  other  day— dear  me,  where  was  it? — a  regular  little  beauty, 
and  they  said  it  was  for  sale.  Oh,  I  know,  Jim  Barrett  had  it.  1  w'ili 
go  and  have  a  look  at  it,  and  if  it  promises  well  we  will  get  it  foi 
sie.  A  puppy  will  do  more  for  her  than  all  the  consoling  words  in  the 
world,  eh!"  looking  at  Jack  in  surprise,  "  why  are  you  breaking  my 
wrist  with  that  list  of  yours?"  but  Jack  made  no  answer,  his  handshake 
was  eloquent  enough  if  only  Launeelot  had  chosen  to  understand  it. 

"  She  shall  have  the  puppy,  poor  little  mite!"  he  muttered,  and  lie 
made  it  his  first  business  on  the  following  day  before  he  met  Jack  at  the 
outfitter's,  to  go  down  to  Jim  Barrett  and  inspect  the  pug  baby. 

There  was  plenty  of  occupation  for  Launeelot  the  next  day;  and  he 
and  Jack  were  on  their  feet  from  morning  to  night.  He  had  to  leave 
him  to  finish  by  himself  at  last,  as  he  had  to  meet  his  brother  Geoffrey 
at  the  club — they  had  arranged  to  dine  together  before  Geoffrey  went 
off  to  the  station. 

Launeelot  was  somewhat  late,  and  found  Geoffrey  walking  up  and 
down  the  room  chafing  at  the  delay. 

"  This  is  too  bad,  Launce,"  he  said,  impatiently,  as  Launeelot  hur- 
ried up  with  an  apology.  "  1  shall  have  scarcely  time  to  eat  my  dinner 
before  the  train  starts. ' ' 


'  You  are  always  eating  dinners,  Geoff,"  returned  Launeelot, 

an  allusion  to  the  duties  of  an  embryo  barrister.     "  .My  dear 


]y,  with  an 


boy,  there  is  plenty  of  time,  and  it  could  not  be  helped,  I  had  such  an 
awful  lot  of  business  to  do." 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  are  always  so  busy,"  returned  the  other,  in  a  qui//ical 
voice;  and  then  they  took  their  places  at  the  table,  and  Launeelot  in- 
spected the  wine  carte  with  a  gravity  worthy  of  a  better  cause. 

The  brothers  were  not  much  alike.    Geoffrey  was  a  fair,  gentlemanly 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  45 

looking  young  fellow,  with  rather  a  plain,  clever  face,  but  it  lacked  the 
•mimation  and  brightness  that  made  Launcelot's  so  attractive  even  to 
strangers. 

He  was  quieter  and  more  reserved,  and  there  was  a  curl  of  the  lip 
tint  could  be  satirical.  In  the  family  circle  Geoffrey  was  regarded  as 
a  genius.  He  read  a  great  deal,  and  was  rather  fond  of  airing  his  opin- 
ions. He  had  already  written  some  clever  articles  for  the  "Imperial 
Review,"  though  no  one  knew  of  this  fact  but  Lauucelot  and  Mr. 
Thorpe.  Launcelot  was  immensely  proud  of  him,  and  always  took  a 
snub  from  Geoffrey  in  good  part.  "Young  cocks  crow  loudly,"  he 
would  say;  "  Geoff  will  be  more  humble  and  think  less  of  himself  by 
find  by.  These  clever  boys  have  not  learned  to  control  their  own 
-;  lie  is  practicing  on  us  beforehand — getting  his  hand  in  for  cross- 
examination."  And  he  never  would  own  that  his  younger  brother  was 
wanting  in  respect  to  him.  Perhaps  after  all,  he  was  judicious  in  his 
treatment,  for  though  Geoffrey  and  Bernard  teased  him  and  laughed  at 
him  unmercifully  they  secretly  adored  him,  and  he  had  more  influence 
over  them  than  he  knew.  Launcelot  was  too  busy  and  sweet-natured 
to  assert  authority,  unless  it  were  really  necessary  to  do  so;  but  now  and 
then  he  had  spoken  seriously  and  with  much  displeasure  to  one  or  the 
other  of  the  boys,  as  he  called  them,  though  Geoffrey  was  four-aud- 
Iwenty;  and  then  he  had  never  spoken  in  vain. 

On  the  present,  occasion  Geoffrey's  sarcasm  had  been  brief,  and  they 
had  dined  amicably  together;  but  when  Launcelot  accompanied  his 
brother  to  the  station  he  spoke  a  parting  word  or  two. 

"  Geoff,  you  will  tell  the  mother  I  want  her  back  as  soon  as  possible. 
I  am  tired  of  my  bachelor  existence." 

"  All  right.     Any  message  to  the  girls?" 

"  Yes;  love  to  Pauline,  and  tell  Bee  not  to  be  up  to  her  nonsense;  no 
more  dawdling  in  the  Riviera— sharp's  the  word!" 

"  Ah,  sharp's  the  word;  I'll  be  sure  to  tell  Bee  that." 

"  And  whisper  to  that  monkey,  Sybil,  that  I  have  got  a  great  big  doll 
being  dressed  for  her — nearly  as  big  as  herself,  and  she  and  Miss  Rossi- 
ter  will  have  to  look  after  it.  Oh,  by  the  bye,  kind  regards  to  Miss 
Hossiter." 

"All  right." 

"  And  Geoff,  don't  tell  the  mother  about  the  chicken-pox  and  measles 
breaking  out  at  Uppingham.  Freckles  has  not  had  either,  and  he  is 
coming  home  in  ten  days." 

"  Oh,  of  course;  I  never  meant  to  mention  anything  of  the  kind. 
We  are  moving,  Launce — take  care!" 

"  Good-bye,  old  fellow!    Bring  them  all  back  as  soon  as  possible." 

And  Geoffrey  nodded  and  took  out  his  traveling  cap.  "  What  a  fel- 
low he  is!"  he  said  to  himself;  "  he  forgets  nothing.  Won't  Sybil  turn 
up  her  nose  though  when  I  tell  her  about  the  doll!" 

Early  in  the  following  week  Launcelot  had  to  call  on  a  friend  at  Mort- 
lake,  and  as  it  was  still  light  when  he  had  ended  his  visit,  he  thought 
he  would  walk  over  and  see  how  matters  were  progressing  at  Wenvoe 
I  load.  He  had  expected  to  find  Jack  at  home — he  rather  wanted  to 
have  a  talk  with  him;  but  he  found  Dossie  alone.  He  had  not  seen  her 
for  nearly  a  week  not  since  that  night  when-she  would  not  look  at  him 
—and  he  saw  a  great  change  in  her. 

She  was  sitting  on  the  rug  in  front  of  the  fire,  evidently  doing  noth- 
ing, though  she  had  an  old  coat  of  Jack's  lying  across  her  lap,  with  a 
button  half  sewed  on,  and  the  needle  stuck  in  the  cloth.  She  had 


ONLY     ! 

dwindled  in  those  few  days,  Launcelot  thought,  and  a  sudm 
terror  and  responsibility  came  over  him.    Her  < 

Ji   she  had   cried  a  good   deal,  and  she   looked  ill  and  miserable1. 

it  up  ami   greeted    Launcelot  without  a  smile,  with   an  ol,: 
;   womanly  dignity  tliat  would  havo  amused  him  u 
cumstances,  but  now  he  only  looked  gravely  into  her  sad  little 

e  said,  detaining  her  tor  a  moment,  "you  a 
glad  to  seo  me.     Ilo\v  very,  very  angry  you  must  hi;  with  me,  to 
it  up  a  whole  week/' 

She  colored,  and  snatched  her  hand  away,  but  more  with  nervou 
than  temper. 

"  You  must  riot  say  that,  Mr.  Lance,"  her  abbreviation  of  Ins  immc. 
"  I  am  not  angry  with  you  now.     Father  said  I  was  not  to  be." 

"  My  dear  little  girl,"  in  rather  a  hurt  voice,  "  I  think  your  fall 
far  kinder  to  me  than  you  are.     You  have  really  no  cause  to 
with  me,"  but  though  he  put  his  arm  round  her  thin  little  slim 
and  tried  to  draw  her  closer  to  him  as  he  spoke,  she  resisted,  and 
averted  her  face. 

"  You  must  not  do  that,  Mr.  Lance,  for  I  have  been  very  naughty, 
even  father  says  I  have  been  naughty.     Oh,  you  don't  know," 
gave  a  short  laugh  of  incredulity.     "  I  told  him  over  and  over 
that  I  hated  you  for  taking  him  away,  and  I  really  meant  it." 

Lauucelot  heard  this  stoically,  but  he  felt  a  slight  pang  at  the  child's 
words;  it  was  disagreeable  to  be  hated  even  by  this  scrap  of  humanity. 

"  Am  I  taking  your  father  away,  Dossie?    Is  it  my  fault  that  he  is 
poor  and  can  not  sell  his  pictures?"  " 

"  We  have  always  been  poor,"  she  replied,  trying  to  disengage  her- 
self from  the  hands  that  held  her  so  firmly  and  kindly,  but  si 
gentle  to  do  more  than  move  uneasily  in  his  grasp,  and  Launcelot  would 
not  set  her  free.  "  We  were  always  poor—oh,  ever  since  1  was  a  baby 
— and  father  did  not  mind  it;  but  now  you  have  asked  him  to  ^u  away 
with  that  horrid  red-haired  man,  and  he  is  going!"  with  a  sob. 

"  My  child,"  returned  Launcelot,  in  a  voice  that  soothed  her  in  spite 
of  her  grief,  "  you  are  too  young  and  too  ignorant  to  understand  why 
this  advice  that  seems  so  cruel  to  you  is  really  the  kindest  and 
advice  in  the  world.     If  you  loved  your  father  half  as  well  as  h< 
you,  you  would  not  hate  me  for  helping  him  to  go." 

"  Oh,  I  do  not  hate  you  now,"  rather  shocked  at  this  plain  speaking 
— it  somehow  sounded  worse  from  Launcelot's  lips— "  only  1  ean  not 
quite  forgive  you.     Poor  father  does  not  want  to  go;  he  is  miserable, 
and  I— oh,  What  shall  I  do,  what  shall  I  do!"  and  forgetting  all  her  ani- 
mosity, Dossie  buried  her  face  on  his  shoulder,  and  bin 
of  tears.     Launcelot  drew  the  unhappy  little  creature  closer  in  his 
and  showed  his  wisdom  and  tact  by  letting  her  cry  her  heart  out  undis- 
turbed by  any  reproof,  but  when  she  was  calmer  and  able  to  listen  he 
set  himself  to  comfort  her  in  good  earnest.      First  lie  made  her  under- 
stand that  in  some  strange  inscrutable  way  it  was  for  her  father': 
that  he  should  go  away,  that  it  made  him  very  unhappy  to  be  M»  poor, 
that,  they  would  not  have  bread  to  eat  if  he  stayed  in  England. 

but  you   are   rich,  father  says  so.     You   would   not   let    us 
starve,"  observed  Dossie,  with  a  child's  faith  that  a  friend  should  l>c 
bread-giver 

"  Child,  child,  you  do  not  understand;  bread  eaten  at  another  m»n's 
•  mid  choke  most  of  us.     You  must  take  my  word  for  ii . 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  47 

sie,  until  you  are  older,  that  father  will  be  all  the  happier  for  going 

11  Without  mei     Oh,  no,  Mr.  Lance!" 

"But  I  say  yes.     Now,  Dossie,  do  be  quiet,  like  a  good  girl,  and 
to  me."    And  then  he  drew  such  an  artful  and  glowing  descrip- 
tion of  Jack's  life  in  that  unknown  country,  of  how  he  would  work  to 
?>ney  for  Dossie,  and  how  Dossie  must  grow  big  and  strong  and 
a  great  many  things,  that  she  might  be  able  to  preside  over  the 
iful  little  house  he  had  got  ready  for  her,  "  not  a  house  like  this," 
:iir  round  the  shabby  room  with  well-counterfeited  disdain,  "  but  a 
!ittle  cottage  with  new  carpets  and  curtains,  and  lots  of  pretty  fur- 
,  and  roses  growing  in  the  garden,  and  an  arbor  where  father  can 
•  his  pipe  in  the  evening.     And  there  must  be  some  ivory  chess, 
hat  I  may  come  over  and  play  chess  sometimes,  and  we  will  get 
•I hi— that  is  the  dear,  dear  mother  who  will  take  care  of  you  while 
futhrr  is  away — we  must  ask  her,  I  say,  to  choose  the  prettiest  tea  set 
>u  to  make  our  tea  in,  and  the  tea-pot  must  be  real  silver  and  not 
Britannia  metal." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  exclaimed  Dossie,  charmed  into  a  moment's  forgetfulness 
of  her  woe,  and  fixing  her  big  eyes  on  him  in  rapt  attention;  and  it 
was  then  that  the  idea  came  into  Launcelot's  head  that  he  would  make 
a  hasty  sketch  of  the  child  and  give  it  to  Jack,  but  when  he  propounded 
this  scheme  to  Dossie,  she  began  to  cry  again  so  bitterly  that  he  was 
puzzled. 

"  Oh,  it  is  only  because  I  said  I  hated  you,  and  you  are  really  such  a 
nice  kind  man,"  sobbed  Dossie,  with  a  penitent  hug;  "do  please  for- 
give me,  Mr.  Lance." 

"  Of  course  I  forgive  you,  my  dear  little  girl.  Well,  we  are  friends 
now.  I  never  could  see  why  people  need  be  cross  because  they  are  un- 
happy; it  makes  things  so  much  harder,"  finished  Launcelot,  philo- 
sophically. It  must  be  acknowledged  that  he  certainly  lived  up  to  his 
philosophy,  for  he  was  rarely  cross,  except  on  principle,  and  in  the 
most  reasonable  way.  "  Very  well,  Dossie,  I  will  bring  my  palette  and 
paints  to-morrow,  and  you  must  brush  your  hair  very  nicely,  and  tell 
Nancy  to  get  out  the  tangle;  it  is  such  pretty  hair  if  you  would  only 
comb  it  and  keep  it  tidy,"  a  piece  of  advice  that  made  Dossie  open  her 
eyes;  her  father  never  told  her  to  brush  her  hair. 

This  reconciliation  was  very  satisfactory  to  Launcelot;  it  would  have 
pained  him  to  be  regarded  as  a  sort  of  cruel  fate  in  the  child's  eyes,  ;m 
embodied  fetish  or  Juggernaut  of  circumstance  that  was  to  stamp  and 
crush  out  her  happiness.  The  situation  would  not  have  suited  him  at 
all.  He  was  very  much  interested  in  Dossie.  She  was  by  no  means  a 
pretty  child,  but  she  had  expression  and  quaintness,  and  she  had  sweet 
little  ways  witk  her  that  appealed  to  his  soft  side;  the  thought  of  this 
small  waif  that  would  so  soon  be  fatherless  touched  him  with  a  sort  of 
nathos.  She  would  be  cast  on  him  for  protection,  and  he  was  beginning 
10  realize  that  his  impulsive  generosity  was  adding  a  new  responsibility 
\o  a  life  that  was  certainly  not  without  its  burdens. 

But  Lauricelot's  nature  was  expansive,  it  was  always  seeking  newobjects 

of  interest;  his  impulses  were  forever  crowding  each  other  out;  he  liked 

playing  the  part  of  a  minor  Providence  in  other  people's  lives,  and  his 

tthies  seldom  lay  long  dormant.     If  he  had  lived  in  medieval 

times  he  would  have  been  a  zealous  knight-errant;  the  rescue  of  dis- 

1  damosels,  of  oppressed  childhood  or  old  age,  would  have  been 

work  just  suited  to  his  peculiar  temperament;  but  as  his  honest  kindly 


48  ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS. 

heart  boat  beneath  the  broadcloth  jiml  line  linen  of  the  nineteenth  cent- 
ury, he  had  to  tind  other  scope  for  his  philanthropy. 

Launcelot  brought  down  his  color-box  and  soon,  produced  two  very 
•pleasing  sketches  of  Dossie,  one  of  which  lie  put  away  carefulh'  in  his 
portfolio.  Jack  almost  broke  down  when  he  saw  the  little  picture;  it 
was  a  mere  sketch,  but  it  was  wonderfully  true  to  the  life;  the  wide 
childish  eyes  looked  troubled  and  inquiring,  they  always  had  this  look 
now;  the 'lips  had  a  sad  curve,  the  little  pale  face  was  grave  and  un- 
smiling. "  Oh,  Dossie,  why  did  you  not  smile?"  exclaimed  Jack,  re- 
proach full }';  "is  that  the  way  you  mean  to  look  at  your  poor  father 
when  he  has  nothing  but  this  picture  to  console  him? — but— but  it  is 
beautiful,  it  is  my  Dossie  to  the  life!"  and  the  big  tears  stood  in  Jack'* 
eyes  as  he  pored  over  his  treasure. 

Dossie  had  been  perfectly  silent  when  the  photograph  in  its  handsome 
velvet  frame  had  been  placed  before  her,  but  her  lips  had  turned  white. 
For  a  moment  she  positively  could  not  speak.  "Is  it  for  me;  is  it  my 
very  own?"  she  faltered,  by  and  by. 

"  Yes,  my  pet;  and  it  is  Launcelot's  present  to  you.  You  must  thank 
him,  not  me,  Dossie." 

But  to  their  surprise  Dossie  shrunk  a  little  further  away. 

"  I  can't  thank  Mr.  Lance,  father;  he  is  too  kind.  I  want  to  do  some- 
thing for  him  my  own  self."  And  now  the  tears  ran  down  her  face. 

"  And  so  you  shall;  you.  shall  do  lots  of  things  for  me,  Dossie,"  re- 
turned Launcelot,  cheerfully.  He  saw  the  childish  heart  was  quite  op- 
pressed by  its  load  of  gratitude;  other  children  would  have  been  loud 
in  their  expression  of  ecstasy,  but  the  delicacy  conveyed  in  those  few 
words  touched  him  far  more.  ' '  I  want  to  do  something  for  him  my 
own  self,"  rang  in  his  ears  the  whole  day  afterward. 

Dossie  was  a  little  puzzled  by  the  next  gift— the  pug  puppy  which 
arrived  in  Launcelot's  pocket  about  three  days  before  Jack  was  to  sail; 
in  fact,  for  the  first  few  hours  her  feelings  on  the  subject  were  sadly 
mingled,  and  her  pleasure  in  the  new  possession  was  certainly  not  with- 
out alloy.  , 

It  was  a  dear  delightful  puppy,  and  the  sight  of  its  black  wrinkled 
nose  was  enough  to  distract  any  child.  It  was  the  loveliest,  dearest, 
sweetest  puppy  she  had  ever  seen;  but  how  was  she  to  do  her  duty  by 
it  when  she  had  all  those  buttons  to  sew  on  and  all  those  things  things 
to  pack?  for  Jack  contrived  small  artful  jobs  to  keep  her  busy  most  of 
the  day.  But  now  how  was  she  to  work  with  the  puppy  rolling  on  her 
lap,  and  every  now  and  then  whining  and  trying  to  lick  her  fare:  when 
the  black  muzzle  and  scratchy  paws  seemed  everywhere;  when  the 
sooty  kitten  give  him  furtive  dabs  every  time  he  passed  her,  and  then 
sat  up  on  end  and  spat  at  him?  There  was  so  much  valuable  time  lost 
in  making  peace  between  them,  so  much  coaxing  and  petting  before  the 
puppy  would  consent  to  curl  himself  up  and  be  quiet;  but  as  she  busied 
herself  in  making  a  comfortable  bed  on  the  sofa,  Jack  and  Launcelot 
exchanged  meaning  glances  full  of  satisfaction. 

Launcelot  had  looked  rather  grave  when  he  arrived,  and  after  the 
Mtation  of  the  infant  pug  he  had  had  a  long  conversation  with  Jack 
in  the  window. 

"I  told  you  so,"  returned  Jack,  when  he  had  heard  all  Lauucelot 
had  to  say.  "  I  knew  they  would  not  be  home  in  time." 

"  It  is  no  one's  fault;  they  are  on  their  way,"  was  the  eager  reply. 
"  It  is  only  Bee's  sprained  ankle  that  is  detaining  them.  Silly  girl,  why 
need  she  have  stepped  on  that  piece  of  orange-peel?  It  is  those  con 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  49 

founded  high- heeled  boots  of  hers.  Bee  is  so  vain.  Jack,  I  am  awfully 
sorry  about  it,  I  am  indeed;  but  it  is  no  one's  fault." 

"*No,  it  is  only  my  cursed  ill-luck,"  was  the  answer;  "  things  never 
will  turn  up  as  I  want  them.  I  should  like  to  have  seen  Delia  and 
asked  her  to  be  kind  to  Dossie.  No  offense  to  you,  Launcelot,  but  I 
should  have  gone  away  happier  if  I  could  have  seen  them  together." 

"  Of  course  I  know  what  you  mean,  and  it  is  a  horrible  nuisance;  but, 
Jack,  you  may  trust  me.  I  can  answer  for  Madella  as  I  can  for  myself; 
that  woman  has  never  disappointed  me.  Look  here,  I  have  been  down 
to  see  the  Thorpes,  and  we  have  made  all  arrangements.  Directly  you 
start,  I  shall  take  Dossie  over  to  Riversleigh  and  leave  her  with  Miss 
Rachel,  and  then  I  shall  be  able  to  give  you  the  last  news  of  her.  You 
can  go  on  board  and  wait  for  me;  there  will  be  plenty  of  time  for  me  to 
do  the  thing  nicely." 

"  Thanks;  what  a  brick  you  are,  Launcelot." 

"  Then  we  will  settle  it  so.  Miss  Rachel  is  fond  of  children,  and  she 
will  be  very  good  to  Dossie,  I  know.  I  think  we  may  expect  Madella 
in  about  ten  days'  time."^  And  then  they  had  turned  from  the  window 
and  watched  Dossie  as  she  put  her  troublesome  charge  to  bed. 

"  It  will  do:  the  little  animal  will  give  her  plenty  of  work,"  observed 
Lauucelot  in  a  low  voice,  and  then  he  had  summoned  Dossie  to  a  solemn 
conclave  for  bestowing  a  name  on  the  puppy. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

"OH,    MY  LITTLE  CHILD,    MY  LITTLE  CHILD!" 

Oh,  the  little  birds  sung  east,  and  the  little  birds  sung  west; 

Toll  softly ! 
And  I  smiled  to  think  God's  greatness  flowed  round  our  incompleteness, 

Round  our  restlessness  His  rest. 

ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING. 

LAUNCELOT  sacrificed  a  great  deal  of  his  time  to  Jack's  service.  He 
paid  frequent  visits  to  Wenvoe  Road,  and  his  tact  and  shrewd  common 
sense  smoothed  many  a  difficulty,  and  made  those  last  few  days  less 
unbearable  to  both  father  and  child.  A  little  judicious  sympathy,  a 
few  words  of  encouragement,  did  much  to  put  heart  in  Jack.  The  idea 
of  making  a  fresh  beginning,  of  breaking  off  old  habits,  of  atoning  for 
past  mistakes,  was  nerving  him  for  the  parting.  Launcelot's  generosity 
made  him  feel  himself  a  debtor.  "  Whatever  happens,  I  must  not  dis- 
appoint him,"  was  his  one  thought. 

Launcelot  was  not  the  man  for  half  measures.  Geoffrey  always  said 
of  him  that  he  rode  a  hobby  to  death,  and  though  this  was  an  exaggera- 
tion it  was  nevertheless  true  that  Launcelot  threw  himself  into  any  new 
pursuit  or  fresh  interest  with  a  zest  and  self-absorption  that  rendered 
himself  oblivious  of  everything  else  for  the  time.  He  liked  to  go  straight 
at  a  thing  and  carry  it  through.  It  was  this  that  made  him  such  a 
valuable  ally.  People  who  needed  help,  and  whose  cause  he  had 
espoused,  never  felt  that  his  interest  nagged  or  his  sympathy  failed 
them  until  he  had  got  their  heads  above  water.  "  Now  you  feel  the 
ground  firm  under  your  feet,  and  you  must  shift  for  yourself;"  and  if 
he  did  not  exactly  say  these  words,  he  certainly  acted  up  to  the  spirit  of 
ihem. 

One  of  his  numerous  proteges  whom  he  had  thus  helped  to  find  his 
foothold  once  more  said  to  him,  reproachfully,  "  You  take  far  less  in- 
terest in.  me,  Chudleigh,  now  that  I  am  a  decent  fellow,  and  when  other 


ONLY    Till:    GOVERNESS. 

people  are  just  beginning  to  remember  my  existence,  than  when  I  was 
an  unlucky  beggar  going  downhill  as  fast  as  I  could." 

"  You  are  wrong,"  returned  Launcelot,  with  a  friendly  smii' 
shall  always  take  interest  in  you,  only  you  need  me  less,  and  tin  i 
others  who  need  me  more." 

When  the  last  day  came  Laimcelot  carefully  kept  aloof  from  W< 
lioad.     "  Do-sic  must   have  you  all  to  herself  to-morrow ;  1  shall  not 
come  near  you,"  he  had  said  to  .lack  the  preceding  night,  and  the  other 
had  Quietly  acquiesced   in   this.     Jack   thought  that  long,  drcai 
would  never  pass,  and  yet  he  treasured  every  minute  as  though  lit 
u  miser  counting  out  his  gold. 

It  was  one  of  those  hopelessly  wet  days,  when  from  morning  to  night 
the  gray  overcharged  clouds  showed  no  doubt  of  their  meaning:  when 
tin1  silent,  continuous  rain  fell  without  pause  or  intermission.  Jack 
regarded  the  prospect  ruefully,  and  his  heart  felt  like  lead  in  his  I 
lie  had  meant  to  take  Dossie  for  a  last  walk.  lie  thought  he  could 
have  got  through  the  hours  better  in  the  open  air,  but  he  found  himself 
kept  an  enforced  prisoner.  "  We  must  make  the  best  of  it,"  he  mut- 
tered, as  he  turned  from  the  window;  and  then  he  called  Dossie  to  help 
him  with  his  packing,  and  they  were  both  exceedingly  busy  for  the  rest 
of  the  morning.  It  may  be  doubted  whether  Dossie  was'  much  help, 
but  he  liked  to  see  her  little  fingers  smoothing  out  his  ties,  or  laboriously 
carrying  the  heaviest  articles  she  could  find.  When  there  was  nothing 
else  she  could  do  she  stood  beside  him — with  Beppo,  the  pug  puppy  in 
her  arms — watching  him  as  he  rammed  down  his  coats  and  shirts. 
"  What  lots  of  things!  How  clever  you  are,  father,  to  get  them  all  in!" 
sighed  Dossie,  when  the  last  portmanteau  was  packed. 

Jack  hardly  knew  how  they  got  through  the  afternoon;  he  smoked  a 
pipe  or  two,  and  watched  Beppo  and  the  kitten  at  their  play,  and  he 
walked  up  and  down  the  room  with  Dossie  hanging  to  his  arm,  and 
told  her  a  great  deal  about  the  life  he  should  lead,  and  about  the  plants 
and  the  trees,  or  any  little  fact  he  had  gleaned  about  the  country,  and 
Dossie  listened  as  though  it  were  a  new  gospel  and  everything  depended 
on  her  not  losing  a  word,  and  at  tea-time  he  pretended  to  be  very 
cheerful,  and  to  enjoy  the  hot  buttered  toast  that  Dossie  had  prepared, 
and  he  \vould  eat  it  although  he  felt  as  if  every  mouthful  would  choke 
him.  Dossie  wielding  the  heavy  Britannia  metal  tea-pot  with  both 
hands  as  usual,  and  absorbed  in  her  labors  of  love,  hardly  saw  the  long 
wistful  glances  that  rested  on  her  face,  but  though  she  fed  the  puppy 
she  scarcely  tasted  food  herself. 

"  I  am  not  hungry,  father.  I  think  it  makes  me  feel  sick  even  te, 
look  at  things,"  she  said,  when  he  pressed  her  to  eat,  and  then  the  tears 
came  into  her  eyes,  and  he  did  not  venture  to  say  more.  But  when  tea 
was  over  there  was  no  more  pretense  at  cheerfulness  or  any  more  talk 
about  that  .strange  far-off  country,  but  as  Jack  lifted  the  child  on  his 
knee  and  felt  the  tight  clasp  of  her  arms  round  his  neck,  a  soil  of  pux- 
xled  sadness  came  over  his  face,  for  the  time  was  growing  very  >hort 
now,  and  there  were  words  that  he  ought  to  say  to  Dossie  that  w<  re 
very  ditlicult  to  be  spoken.  lie  had  an  idea  that  he  ought  to  give  her 
sound  fatherly  advice,  and  to  speak  words  of  wisdom  that  she  might 
,re  up  when  lie  had  gone;  he  must  do  what  other  fathers  would 
have  done  in  his  case:  if  only  lie  could  think  what  to  say. 

a-,"  lie  began  a!   la-t,  when  the  silence  had  lasted  along 
time,  "  I  think  you  and  I  ought  to  have  a  little  talk  together." 


ONLY    THE    OOVEKNESS.  51 

"Yes,  father,"  but  Do«pie  did  not  move;  she  had  srof  one  hand  en- 
tangled in  the  long  heard,  and  no\v  she  li^hleiK-d  lier  bold  a  liitlu. 

"  I  want  you  to  promise  me  something,  pet;"  but  to  his  consternation 
Dossie  interrupted  him  in  a  most  pitiful  voice. 

"  Ah,  no,  father — please — please — do  not  make  me  promise — any- 
thing but  that,  father  dear." 

"  But,  my  darling — "          t 

"  Oh,  father,  please  don't,"  still  more  plaintively;  "  it  is  hard  enough 
without  that,  and  it  will  only  make  it  so  much  worse.  Don't  make  me 
think  I  am  naughty  every  time  I  fret;  you  want  me  to  promise  not  to 
fret  when  you  are  gone,  but  ah,  how  dreadful  that  would  be,  for  if  I 
cry — and  I  must  cry— I  shall  think  now  I  am  disobeying  father  and 
breaking  my  promise,  and  that  will  make  it  so  much  worse." 

"  Well,  well,"  kissing  the  little  pleading  face,  "  I  will  not  ask  you  to 
promise;  but,  Dossie,  I  must  say  something.  If  you  want  to  please  me, 
if  you  want  to  make  me  less  miserable,  you  will  write  and  tell  me  that 
you  are  happy." 

"  I  must  not  say  it  if  it  is  not  true,  father,  must  I?" 

"  Xo,  no;  for  Heaven's  sake  be  your  mother's  child,  and  always 
speak  the  truth — the  truth,  Dossie,  before  everything;  but  you  can 
make  it  true,  my  darling:  you  can  say  to  yourself,  I  will  be  happy  for 
father's  sake,  because  he  never  likes  me  to  be  sad,  and  then  the  happi- 
ness will  come." 

"Will  come,"  echoed  Dossie,  in  mild  parrot  fashion,  but  her  face 
belied  her  words;  a  child's  present  misery  never  grasps  the  idea  of  fut- 
ure alleviation;  now  is  forever,  time  is  eternity,  there  are  no  possible 
horizons  to  a  child's  grief,  the  prospect  presents  a  blank. 

"And  you  will  be  a  good  child,"  went  on  Jack,  pausing  over  his 
words  as  his  difficulty  about  the  good  advice  grew  greater.  Dossie 
could  not  help  him  here.  She  could  hardly  read  his  thoughts  at  this 
crisis;  and  yet  Jack  was  longing  ardently  to  dovhis  duty  to  his  mother- 
less child. 

"  I  will  try,  father,"  in  the  same  automatic  voice. 

"  And — and  you  will  always  say  your  prayers  and  read  your  Bible — 
your  dear  mother's  Bible  that  I  gave  you,  Dossie.  I  am  afraid  "—in  a 
conscience-stricken  voice — "  that  I  ought  to  have  read  to  you  more,  but 
I  never  had  time." 

"Oh,  but  you  did  read  to  me,"  returned  Dossie,  rousing  at  this. 
"  Don't  you  remember,  father,  when  I  had  the  measles  you  read 
Joseph  and  his  brethren  and  Daniel  in  the  lions'  den— oh,  and  about 
Goliath,  too.  I  remember  we  were  in  the  little  cottage  at  Slough,  and 
there  were  no  books,  and  you  were  afraid  I  was  dull;  oh,  I  did  enjoy 
it  so;  you  read  beautifully,  and  I  know  I  cried  over  that  poor  Joseph; 
oh,  I  know  the  Bible  well,"  finished  Dossie,  contentedly;  "I  always 
listen  at  church,  and  one  hears  a  lot  that  way." 

"  Yes,  but  you  do  not  know  your  Catechism;  Delia  will  be  shocked 
at  that,"  replied  Jack,  with  a  sigh.  He  was  afraid  he  was  very  much 
to  blame;  he  had  never  taught  Dossie  that  she  had  to  renounce  the 
world,  the  flesh,  and  the  devil,  or  to  keep  her  hands  from  picking  and. 
stealing.  He  had  expected  her  to  grow  up  good  without  example  or 
precept;  now  and  then  he  had  bidden  her  never  to  forget  her  prayers, 
and  he  had  been  careful  to  take  her  to  church  every  Sunday,  though 
his  inclinations  would  have  kept  him  away;  but  when  she  had  ques- 
tioned him  about  what  the  preacher  meant,  he  had  been  obliged  to  con- 
fess that  he  never  listened  to  sermons. 


53  OKLY    TTTE    flOVEKXESS. 

"  I  wonder  why  people  preach  them,  then?"  returned  Do^sie,  in  rx-r- 
fpr-tly  gmd  faith:  "perhaps  they  want  to  do  themselv<  idy  it 

is  a  pity  they  talk  so  loud  and  tire  thcni-elvc-  if  no  one  listens." 

"I  am  afraid  Delia  will  be  shocked  at  your  ignorance,"  went  on 
Jack.  "  Your  aunt  Delia  believes  in  the  Catechism  and  that  sort  of 
thing:  she  is  an  awfully  good  woman.  Dossie,  I  want  you  to  be  a 
child  to  her  and  try  and  love  her.  She  was  very  kind  to  me,  and  I 
a  lot  of  trouble.  Look  here  " — and  Jack's  tone  became  impressive — "  I 
want  you  to  say  something  for  me.  You  must  not  forget,  Dossie.  You 
must  say  her,  '  Aunt  Delia,  I  am  Jack's  little  girl,  and  he  wants  you  to 
love  me.  You  were  very  good  to  him.  when  he  was  a  little  boy,  and  he 
knows  you  will  be  good  to  me,  and — and  he  sends  his  love.'  Now  re- 
peat this  after  me."  Dossie  repeated  the  words  obediently;  then  she 
said— 

"  I  will  not  forget,  father;  I  will  say  them  every  word,  and  if  I  am 
very  much  frightened  I  will  shut  my  eyes.  Is  Aunt  Delia  a  very  nice 
lady?  Why  have  we  not  seen  her?" 

41  Because — because  it  is  my  fault.  She  was  good  to  me,  and  I  treated 
her  badly,  and  so  she  never  knew  Pen;"  and  as  Dossie  opened  her  eyeg 
rather  widely  at  this  confession,  he  went  on,  hurriedly — 

"  Never  mind  how  it  all  happened,  darling.  I  am  sure,  quite  sure, 
you  will  soon  love  your  aunt  Delia;  she  is  a  sweet  woman,  and  Launce- 
iot  is  devoted  to  her.  Launcelot  will  be  your  friend  too." 

"  Yes,  father,  and  I  like  him  very  much;  he  is  so  trustable  " — one  of 
Dossie 's  favorite  expressions. 

Jack  smiled. 

"  So  he  is,  my  pet,  so  he  is.  Trustable,  that  just  expresses  it.  Why, 
I  am  a  lucky  fellow  after  all,  Dossie.  I  shall  say  to  myself  very  often, 
'  Here  1  am  working  hard  to  make  a  home  for  my  little  girl — ' 

"That  is  the  house  that  Jack  built,  father,"  interrupted  Dossie, 
quaintly. 

"  Yes,  and  the  bricks  shall  be  hard  shining  sovereigns,  all  saved  for 
Dossie  to  spend,  and  when  I  look  at  them  I  shall  say,  '  There  is  my  lit- 
tle girl  in  England  growing  up  to  be  a  wise,  sweet  woman,  getting  all 
ready  for  her  old  father  when  he  comes  home  a  rich  man.'  ' 

"  Shall  you  soon  get  rich,  father?" 

"  Why,  of  course,"  trying  to  joke.  "  What  am  I  going  all  that  way 
for  except  to  pick  up  gold  and  silver  off  that  mighty  Tom  Tiddler's 
ground;"  and  then,  checking  himself  with  a  sigh,  "  but  I  shall  not  stay 
to  grow  overrich;  we  don't  want  much,  do  we,  Dossie?  just  a  little 
place  to  hold  our  two  selves  and  a  garden  where  I  can  smoke  my  pipe 
of  an  evening,  and  where  you  can  grow  all  your  flowers." 

"  Lupins,  and  slocks,  and  marigolds;  do  let  us  have  marigolds,  I  am 
so  fond  of  them." 

"  Oh,  of  course;  *  golden  bells  and  cockle  shells,  and  marigolds  all  in 
a  row.'  I  can  smell  your  flowers  now." 

"Oh,  how  nice,"  replied  Dossie.  "  I  must  grow  up  quick,  or  I  shall 
not  be  tall  enough  to  be  your  housekeeper;"  and  for  a  few  blissful  mo- 
ments her  imagination  bridged  over  the  years  of  separation  and  antici- 
p  ited  the  reunion,  but  the  next  minute  she  shivered  and  grew  pale. 

"  You  must  not  talk  any  more,  darling,"  observed  Jack,  anxiously. 
"  It  is  time  for  you  to  go  to  bed,  I  think  " — counterfeiting  an  excellent 
yawn.  "  I  am  rather  sleepy  myself.  You  see,  we  shall  have  to  get  up 
early,  and  " — as  Dossie,  in  no  way  deluded  by  this  sudden  fatigue,  onlv 
clung  to  him  with  mute  entreatj— "  if  you  will  be  good  and  go  now;  'l 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  53 

will  come  and  sit  by  you  till  you  go  to  sleep;"  and  comforted  by  the 
thought  that  her  dark  hours  would  be  soothed  by  that  beloved  presence, 
Dossie  as  usual  went  off  obediently. 

Jack  never  knew  how  long  he  sat  in  that  dark  garret  listening  to  the 
rain  beating  on  the  roof.  Dossie's  two  little  hands  clasped  his  arm,  her 
hot  face  lay  against  his  shoulder.  She  was  not  crying,  he  was  sure  of 
that,  for  he  could  see  her  eyes  staring  into  the  darkness,  but  he  dared 
not  speak  to  her  lest  the  flood-gates  should  open,  and  she  was  so  young 
and  weak  that  he  feared  any  more  agitation  for  her. 

"  Shut  your  eyes,  darling,"  he  whispered,  and  she  had  closed  them 
at  once,  but  it  was  hours  before  he  could  hear  the  measured  breathing 
that  told  him  the  worn-out  child  had  fallen  asleep,  before  he  dared  to 
move  his  cramped  arms  and  steal  on  tiptoe  from  the  room. 

There  was  something  heroic  in  the  way  he  had  combated  his  restless, 
ness,  and  had  restrained  any  expression  of  weariness.  He  felt  he  would 
rather  die  than  loosen  those  little  hands  that  held  him  so  fast. 

"  Father  sat  by  me  in  the  dark  nearly  all  night,"  Dossie  said,  some 
months  afterward,  when  she  and  Launcelot  were  spending  their  Sunday 
evening  on  the  terrace  at  the  Witchens.  "  I  held  him  tight;  I  was  so 
afraid  he  might  leave  me,  but  he  stayed— oh,  ever  so  long." 

Launcelot  was  leaning  on  the  low  wall,  looking  out  on  a  placid  scene, 
a  heath  bathed  in  the  mellow  light  of  a  harvest  moon.  The  little  episode 
touched  him;  the  thought  of  the  poor  prodigal  sitting  patiently  by  his 
child's  bedside.  "It  is  like  a  parable,"  he  mused;  "I  suppose  the 
Almighty  Father  watches  His  human  children  just  in  that  way.  All 
one  has  to  do  is  to  cling — hold  tight,  as  she  says — but  when  the  darkness 
comes,  one  lets  go.  Yes,  that  is  the  pitj  of  it— one  lets  go. ' ' 

As  Launcelot  drove  up  in  his  hansom  the  next  morning,  he  felt  he 
had  an  unpleasant  business  before  him.  "  It  seemed  to  me  as  though  I 
had  to  shepherd  some  bleating  lamb  whose  mother  had  gone  to  the 
butcher's,"  he  observed  afterward  to  Miss  Thorpe. 

Nothing  ruffled  Launcelot's  equable  nature  so  much  as  the  idea  of  a 
scene.  These  disturbed  phases  of  human  emotion  were  always  classed 
in  his  mind  with  volcanic  eruptions,  earthquakes,  cataclysms,  and  other 
violent  agencies  of  nature. 

In  spite  of  his  impulsive  and  sensitive  temperament,  he  had  a  touch 
of  the  stoic  about  him;  if  he  suffered,  he  wrapped  his  mantle  round  him 
like  an  old  Roman,  and  suffered  silently.  In  Jack's  place  he  would 
have  spared  himself  and  the  child  the  prolonged  agony  of  parting,  he 
would  have  left  her  sleeping  and  stolen  from  the  house;  but  Jack's  soft 
nature  was  not  capable  of  such  sublime  effort  as  this. 

"  Let  me  keep  her  until  the  last  minute,"  he  pleaded.  "  You  shall 
take  her  away  before  my  luggage  is  put  on  the  cab,  but  you  must  not 
begrudge  me  this  last  hour,"  and  of  course  Launcelot  could  say  no 
more. 

But  he  doubted  Jack's  wisdom  when  he  entered  the  room.  The  child 
was  enduring  agony;  he  could  see  that.  She  was  dressed  in  her  little 
cloak  and  hood-bonnet  which  always  transformed  her  into  a  little  Puri- 
tan. She  had  been  calm. until  she  heard  the  hansom  drive  up,  and  then 
she  had  flung  herself  into  her  father's  arms  and  was  holding  him  with 
all  her  childish  force,  and  nothing  would  induce  her  to  lift  her  head. 

Jack  looked  up  with  a  mute  entreaty  for  help;  he  saw  his  mistake 
now,  and  Lauucelot  was  not  slow  to  respond. 

"  Oh,"  he  said,  cheerfully,  "  Dossie  is  bidding  you  good-bye,  is  she? 
Very  well,  she  must  be  quick  about  it.  I  see  your  cab  coming  round 


f>  I  OXLY     THE 

the  corner.  Jack,  and  you  will  h;ive  to  look  sharp  and  help  the  man 
with  all  those  traps;  you  Imve  only  ten  minutes  to  do  everything." 

"J)o  you  hear  what   Lance-  says,  my  darling?"  said  Jack,  huskily, 
but  he  woke  to  deaf  cars.     Dossie  was  past  listening  no\v;  lhe\ 
spoke  to  her,  but  in  vain;  and  then  Launcelot  made  a  sign  that  hc'v 
take  her  out  of  her  father's  arms.     Jack  understood  him.     "  ()n< 
ment—  irive  me  one  moment,"  he  said;  and  then,  almost  roughly,  he 
drev;  back  the  child's  head  and  covered  the  little  white  faee  with 
siouate  kisses.     "  Oh,  my  little  child,  my  little  child!"  Launcelot  heard 
him  groan,  as  very  firmly  but  tenderly  he  unloosed  Dossie's  grasp,  and 
lifted  her  up. 


moment. 

But  it  went  to  his  heart  to  see  how  she  shrunk  from  him  when  he 
tried  to  draw  her  closer  to  him  in  the  cab;  no  one  should  comfort  her 
for  her  father's  loss,  that  is  what  her  action  said  to  him.  lie  had  the 
tact  to  leave  her  alone,  only  now  and  then  he  touched  the  little  listless 
hand,  but  his  pressure  was  not  returned. 

"  She  is  tasting  the  bitterness  of  death,"  he  said  to  himself,  and  once 
when  the  cab  stopped  in  a  crowded  thoroughfare,  he  leaned  forward 
and  peered  under  the  little  hood-bonnet.  She  was  shedding  no  tears, 
but  the  sick  white  look  of  childish  despair  appalled  him. 

"  If  she  lives  until  she  is  an  old  woman,  she  will  never  live  through- a 
worse  moment,"  he  thought.  "  Thank  God,  we  shall  have  a  woman  to 
help  us  soon;  the  child  must  have  some  relief,  or  she  will  never  weather 
this." 

Launcelot  thought  that  long  drive  would  never  have  an  end.  "  Arc 
you  not  very  tired,  Dossie?"  he  said  once,  trying  to  break  the  silence 
between  them,  but  she  only  shook  her  head. 

But  it  was  a  relief  when  the  cab  turned  into  the  quiet  secluded  corner 
•where  the  Thorpes  lived;  it  was  called  Priory  Road,  but  Mr.  Thorpe 
always  spoke  of  it  as  the  Close. 

It  was  a  strangely  quiet  little  corner,  a  terrace  of  old-fashioned  houses 
standing  back  in  narrow  strips  of  gardens,  and  a  little  further  on  was 
the  large  roomy  vicarage. 

A  low  white  house  adjoined  the  picturesque  almshouses  and  the  pretty 
quaint  garden  with  its  rustic  seats,  and  at  the  other  end  was  the  beauti- 
ful church,  with  its  gray  old  tower  and  lime  walk  and  peaceful  church- 
yard. 

It  was  a  beautiful  spot,  and  one  that  Launcelot  loved.     Often  had  he 
and  Mr.  Thorpe  strolled  up  and  down  the  church-yard.     Sometimes 
they   would  linger  under  the  limes,  and  Launcelot  would  look  up  at 
the  gray  old  church,  and  then  feast  his  eyes  on  the  quaint  lovely  old 
almshouses.     "  You  are  right  to  call  it  the  Close,  Thorpe,"  he  would 
say;  "  it  has  just  the  same  sleepy,  reverent  aspect  that  one  sees  in  & 
cathedral  close;  the  wicked  world  lies  outside;  a  sort  of  Sabbath  still- 
breathes  over  the  place.     The  church  is  always  open,  you 
good — very  good;  one  could  learn  to  pray  here.     LOOK  at  the  sun- 
hind  those  trees,  Thorpe,  and  the  gleam  of  that  water.     The  alnHiouse 
windows  are  shining  like  gold,  and  the  peaked  roofs  arc  so  clearly  dc- 
iinder  that  pink  sky.      \Vhat  a  ^low!  wli.it  coloring!  how  uoixi  of 
two  old  women   in   their  black  poke  bonnets  to  add  life  to  the 
.••;  my  dear  fellow,  1  could  rhapsodize;  for  hours." 


ONLY    THE    GOYE11NESS.  55 

"  Better  not,  as  "Rachel  is  waiting  dinner  for  us,"  Mr.  Thorpe  would 
perhaps  say;  he  would  often  silence  Launcelot 's  artistic  raptures  with 
some  such  chilling  response,  but  in  reality  his  heart  clave  to  the  place 
with  a  strength  of  attachment  that  would  have  surpiised  his  friend. 

"It  is  just  the  place  for  a  tired  man.  I  should  like  to  die  here, 
Rachel,"  he  had  once  said,  but  Rachel  had  scouted  this  idea  with  some 
energy.  She  was  a  woman  who  talked  and  thought  more  of  living  than 
dying;  she  always  said  the  first  was  every  one's  business,  and  the  sec- 
ond belonged  to  no  one.  "If  we  live  well,  that  is  all  that  can  be  ex- 
pected of  us."  She  would  add,  "  Dying,  well  that  is  not  in  our  hands 
at  all;  we  must  die  as  God  wills." 

Miss  Thorpe  was  standing  at  the  open  door  when  the  cab  drove  up. 
She  looked  trim  and  alert  in  her  neat  black  gown— Miss  Thorpe  always 
VUHC  black,  and  dressed  in  the  plainest 'fashion;  her  hair  was  drawn 
slightly  from  her  face,  and  showed  the  wide  benevolent  forehead. 

Her  eyes  glistened  a  little  as  Launcelot  carried  in  the  weary  child 
and  placed  her  in  Miss  Thorpe's  arms. 

"  Poor  little  dear,"  she  said,  in  her  quiet  voice,  and  she  untied  the 
hood,  and  looked  kindly  into  the  woe-begone  little  face.  "  So  father 
has  gone,  poor  father!  but  he  will  soon  come  back  again;"  and  some- 
how those  few  simple  words  broke  down  Dossie's  unnatural  calm. 

"  Oh,  my  father,  my  father!"  she  sobbed,  clinging  to  Miss  Thorpe  of 
her  own  accord. 

Miss  Thorpe  looked  at  Launcelot,  significantly. 

"  Let  her  cry,  it  will  do  her  good,"  her  eyes  seemed  to  say;  then  aloud, 
"  Mr.  Chudleigh,  will  you  ask  the  man  to  bring  in  the  little  girl'*  box— 
my  maids  are  busy — and  then  Dossie  and  I  will  go  upstairs.  I  know 
we  must  not  keep  you  now,  but  you  will  be  back  in  time  for  dinner." 

"  Oh,  yes;  you  will  probably  see  me  before  that.  It  is  not  half  past 
ten  yet;  there  is  no  need  to  say  good-b}^,"  and  with  a  swift  look* at  Dos- 
Bie,  whose  little  frame  was  now  quivering  with  sobs,  he  entered  the  cab 
again  and  was  driven  rapidly  away. 

"  I  always  thought  she  was  a  good  woman,  but  I  did  not  know  she 
had  a  way  like  that  with  her,  "he  said  to  himself,  thinking  of  Miss 
Thorpe;  "  but  I  suppose  most  women  have  the  maternal  instinct,  it  is 
born  with  them;  but,  somehow,  if  I  were  a  child,  and  an  unhappy  one, 
I  could  not  fancy  myself  clinging  to  Miss  Thorpe,  certainly  not  if 
Madella  were  anywhere  near.  I  believe  I  worship  that  woman,"  fin- 
ished Launcelot,  with  an  odd  little  smile. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

RACHEL     THORPE. 

Be  hopeful;  make  allowances;  put  yourself  in  other  people's  places;  avoid  both 
the  stoical  and  epicurean  extremes ;  be  neither  sinner  nor  pharisee,  and  you  have 
secured  the  safest  and  pleasantest  prong  of  our  three-cornered  dilemma — Thrte- 
Cbrnered  Essays. 

IT  was  not  surprising  that  Launcelot  looked  utterly  fagged  and  weary 
when  he  drove  up  to  the  door  of  No.  8  Priory  Road,  that  afternoon. 
He  had  passed  two  very  trying  hours  with  Jack,  on  board,  walking  up 
and  down  the  deck.  Jack  had  utterly  broken  down  at  last;  the  thought 
of  the  long  years  before  he  should  see  England  and  Dossie  again  depi  i\ •<  '\ 
him  of  all  courage.  "  I  don't  feel  as  though  I  could  go  through  wiiu 
it,"  he  muttered  more  than  once. 

Launcelot  did  not  desDise  Jack  for  this  faint  hear tedness — he  should 


f»0  ONLY     'J'HJ:     <;<>Y!:ii.\! 

•lit-  in  his  place,  lie  thought;  he  did  not  haruis  him  either 
with  well-meant  but  mi-taken  cheerfulness,  as  most  i*>ople  would  have 
done,  trying  to  distract  him  fiom  his  misery  by  judicious  aphorisms 
and  truisms  that  would  have  been  an  affront  to  his  understanding;  on 
tlie  contrary,  he  walked  beside  him,  keeping  pace  with  his  ri 
strides,  and  scarcely  speaking  at  all  until  some  freti'ul  word  on  Jack's 
part  compelled  an  answer. 

"  Poor  dear  fellow,"  he  thought,  when  at  last  he  had  quitted  the 
gangway,  and  Jack,  with  hazard  face,  leaned  over  to  see  the  1 
him.     "  I  am  afraid  it  will  go  hard  with  him  for  a  long  time,"  and  he- 
eat  his  luncheon  sadly,  and  took  a  stroll  in  the  park,  but  the  painful 
recollection  was  still  strong  on  him  when  he  dismissed  his  cab  aim 
at  the  bell  of  No.  8  Priory  Road.     Regarded  from  the  outside  it  was 
hardly  a  cheerful-looking  abode.    The  projecting  wall  of  the  white  house 
dosed  it  on  one  side;  the  house  itself  was  high  and  narrow,  with  old- 
fashioned  windows  that  belonged  to  the  period  in  which  it  was  built, 
and  no  new-comer  would  have  guessed  the  exceeding  pleasantin 
the  interior. 

The  study  would  be  empty  about  this  hour,  so  Launcelot  went  at 
once  to  the  drawing- room,  where  Miss  Thorpe  was  generally  to  be 
found  in  her  leisure  hours.  It  was  a  charming  room,  with  cozy  nooks 
about  it,  and  Launeelot,  who  had  spent  many  pleasant  evenings  with 
the  brother  and  sister,  was  wont  to  declare  that  he  knew7  of  no  ploas- 
anter  one.  The  furniture  wras  arranged  with  a  view  to  comfort,  and 
the  large  easy-chairs  were  placed  just  at  the  right  angle  from  the  tire, 
with  a  glass  screen  to  temper  the  heat. 

Miss  Thorpe  was  sitting  in  her  favorite  high-backed  chair  by  the  lire. 
It  was  one  of  her  characteristics  never  to  indulge  in  one  of  those  soft 
lounging-chairs  so  much  affected.Jby  the  modern  woman.  A  small 
square  low  table  stood  beside  her,  and  the  little  brass  kettle  hissed  and 
spluttered  cheerfully  on  its  trivet.  A  great  black  cat  lay  asleep  on  the 
tiger-skin  rug.  Launcelot  thought  it  all  looked  very  cozy. 

Miss  Thorpe  looked  up  with  the  smile  with  which  she  always  greeted 
her  favorite. 

"  That  is  right,"  she  said,  cordially;  "  I  hardly  expected  you  so  soon, 
but  I  am  delighted  to  see  you.     How  tired  you  look,  Mr.  Chudleigh. 
Draw  up  that  big  easy-chair  close  to  the  table,  and  1  will  give  you  a  cup 
of  tea.     I  am  sure  you  deserve  it,  for  you  have  worked  like  a  ho; 
day." 

Launcelot  received  the  cup  of  tea  gratefully,  but  before  he  tasted  it 
he  asked  after  Dossie. 

"Poor  little  dear/'  returned  Miss  Thorpe,  and  a  shade  passed  over 
her  fine  face.     "  I  have  had  a  sad  time  with  her.     It  is  very  tr\ ; 
see  a  child  in  such  trouble;  somehow  it  seems  unnatural.    I  though i  ,-he 
would  have  cried  her  heart  out  when  you  had  gone.     1  hardly  knew 
what  to  do  with  her,  but  I  am  thankful  to  say  the  outburst']; 
hausted  her,  and  she  and  the  puppy  are  both  asleep  on  the  big  couch  in 
my  room.     When  she  wakes  up  I  ihall  put  her  to  bed;  she  is  utterly 
spent,  and  fit  for  nothing  else." 

Launcelot  looked  grave  at  this  account.     ':  She  is  unusually  sensitive 
for  a  child  of  her  age.     I  am  afraid  she  is  almost  too  delicately  < 
i/.od.     I  hope  you  induced  her  to  take  some  food;  she  has  been  starving 
If  lately." 

"  .She  would  have  it  that  she  could  not  eat,  but  I  made  her  swallow  -<\ 
cup  of  itrong  broth.  The  puppy  had  his  dinner;  she  actually  rous«d 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  57 

herself  to  feed  U.  I  shall  coax  her  to  take  some  bread  and  milk  when 
she  wakes,  poor  child;  one  must  be  a  little  firm  with  her,  though  she 
seems  docile  by  nature." 

"  I  am  afraid  you  can  hardly  judge  of  her  to-day;  she  is  an  interest- 
ing little  creature,  gentle,  yet  with  plenty  of  originality,  certainly  an 
uncommon  child.  I  wonder  if  you  have  found  this  out?" 

"  Oh,  children  always  interest  me,"  was  the  somewhat  evasive  an- 
swer. "  Ivan  and  I  like  to  have  a  child  about  us.  I  am  a  little  doubt- 
ful whether  he  will  find  Dossie  interesting.  He  likes  high-spirited, 
merry  children,  and  I  should  fancy  Dossie  is  always  rather  sedate,  and 
then  she  is  not  what  you  would  call  an  attractive  child." 

"  You  mean  pretty;  well,  no,  Dossie  is  certainly  not  pretty,  but  she 
has  good  points,  as  I  found  out  when  I  made  that  sketch.  She  is  pale, 
but  her  complexion  is  good,  and  she  has  a  lovely  dimple,  and  I  never 
saw  more  expressive  eyes,  they  seem  to  tell  so  much,  and  I  think  a  great 
deal  could  be  done  with  her  hair." 

Launcelot  spoke  quite  seriously;  he  had  begun  to  think  Dossie  had  a 
nice  little  face,  and  it  was  one  of  his  idiosyncrasies  never  to  criticise 
what  he  loved,  and  he  had  grown  very  fond  of  the  poor  child.  Miss 
Thorpe's  remarks  rather  hurt  him,  and  yel  she  had  carefully  modified 
her  opinion  out  of  respect  to  his  feelings;  in  reality,  she  thought  Dossie 
a  very  plain  little  girl,  and  she  was  sure  her  brother  would  not  take 
to  her. 

She  smiled  now  in  an  amused  way  that  rather  nettled  him,  so  she 
said,  somewhat  shortly — 

' '  I  hope  it  will  not  bore  you  having  her  here.  I  am  afraid  the  poor 
little  thing  may  give  you  a  great  deal  of  trouble." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  mind  trouble,"  was  the  cheerful  response.  "  That  sort 
of  thing  comes  into  the  day's  work.  "We  are  put  into  the  world  to  help 
other  people.  Dossie  shall  have  every  care,  if  it  were  only  for  your 
sake,  Mr.  Chudleigh,  and  we  shall  find  a  way  to  comfort  her,  I  hope, 
before  long.  Ivan  understands  children,  and  they  are  always  happy 
with  him.  By  the  bye,  if  you  have  finished  your  tea  and  feel  more 
rested,  I  want  to  have  a  little  talk  with  you  about  Ivan,"  and,  as  he  put 
down  his  empty  cup  and  looked  at  her  inquiringly,  she  continued,  in 
her  quiet,  impressive  voice,  "  Ivan  told  me  last  night  that  he  had 
spoken  to  you  about  his  unlucky  marriage.  I  always  wanted  him  to  do 
so,  but  he  found  it  so  difficult  to  open  the  subject;  but  I  am  glad,  very 
glad,  that  you.  know." 

"  Why?''  was  Launcelot's  sole  response  to  this;  he  felt  the  mono- 
syllabic reply  was  unsatisfactory,  but  it  was  all  that  occurred  to  him; 
but  Miss  Thorpe  had  her  answer  ready. 

"  Need  you  ask?"  she  returned,  quickly.  "  Mr.  Chudleigh,  you  do 
not  know  how  much  I  am  depending  on  you.  This  friendship  is  the 
finest  thing  that  has  happened  to  Ivan  for  years.  Nothing  has  inter- 
ested him  so  much  since  his  wife  left  him;  it  has  roused  him  and  made 
him  a  different  man." 

"  His  wife's  loss  is  making  him  still  unhappy,  then?"  asked  Launce- 
lot. He  was  very  anxious  for  Miss  Thorpe's  answer,  but  it  struck  him 
that  she  evaded  the  question. 

"  Of  course  he  feels  his  position  bitterly;  his  temperament  was  never 
very  gay,  but  there  is  no  need  for  him  to  shut  himself  up  as  though  he 
were  a  hermit — at  his  age  it  is  absurd — but  he  alwajrs  says  he  can  not 
mix  with  peoplo  unless  they  know  he  is  a  married  man;  and  he  would 
rather  keep  to  himself  than  tell  his  story.  It  is  on  this  point  that  I  want 


58  OXLY    TITE    GO  VET?  "Si 

your  hcAp,  Mr.  rimdleiirh.  My  influence  will  not  avail  here,  and  I  am 
looking  to  you  to  roiiM'  him  from  this  morbid  stato,  and  induce  him  to 
re-enter  Bociety." 

"You  must  not  depend  on  me  too  much.  I  have  never  been  able 
even  to  indiK-e  him  to  dine  with  us  at  the  Witchens." 

"  That  was  because  he  had  not  told  you  about  Joan;  it  will  be  differ- 
ent now.  "We  talked  about  it  last  night,  and  he  owned  he  had  no  ob- 
jection to  your  people  knowing  the  bare  facts  of  the  case.  He  dreads 
idle  gossip,  and  on  Joan's  account  he  wishes  to  keep  it  quiet;  but  I 
managed  to  extract  a  sort  of  promise  that  for  the  future  he  would  not 
refuse  your  invitations." 

"  I  am  glad  you  have  told  me  this,  Miss  Thorpe.    Your  brother  made 
me  understand  that  it  must  be  a  sealed  subject  between  us,  and,  though 
it  is  not  a  pleasant  thing  to  say,  you  know  the  world  so  well  that 
sure  you  will  not  misconstrue  my  meaning  when  I  say  that  with  ,\ 
•s,  and  both  of  them  attractive  girls,  I  could  hardly  introdi 
married  man  under  the  guise  of  a  bachelor." 

' '  No,  you  are  quite  right.  It  is  always  best  to  be  open  in  such  cases. 
Ivan  .is  so  indifferent  to  women  that  he  never  thinks  of  this.  I  am  very 
anxious  that  Ivan  should  visit  at  the  Witchens.  I  think  it  will  be  the 
opening  for  greater  sociality;  but  all  the  same  I  would  recommend  you 
to  state  the  case  clearly  to  your  step-mother,  and  see  if  she  has  any  ob- 
jection." 

"  Oh,  of  course.    I  always  tell  Madella  everything." 

"  And  you  are  guided  by  her  advice?" 

"  Well,  no.  I  think  it  is  the  other  way  about;  she  is  guided  by  mine. 
When  I  tell  her  things,  she  always  says,  '  What  is  your  opinion,  Lance?' 
a/nd  that  settles  it."  ' 

"In  that  case  you  know  her  answer  beforehand."  But  Launcelot 
would  not  allow  this;  he  always  talked  things  over  with  her,  and  their 
opinions  never  clashed;  he  had  never  know  her  decide  anything  without 
him.  Bee,  his  eldest  sister,  often  influenced  her  in  his  absence,  but 
when  he  came  back  Bee  went  to  the  wall. 

Miss  Thorpe  was  a  little  puzzled  by  all  this. 

"  Perhaps  I  ought  to  ask  you  then  if  you  have  any  objection  to  Ivan 
meeting  your  sisters?"  but  Launcelot  only  laughed  in  reply. 

"  1  shall  be  delighted  to  introduce  Thorpe,  and  should  not  be  afraid 
of  trusting  him  if  I  had  twenty  sisters.  Bee  and  Pauline  will  only  pity 
him  and  call  him  poor  fellow,  and  as  for  Madella,  she  will  be  ready  to 
move  heaven  and  earth  to  bring  him  and  his  wife  together  again.  Uy 
the  bye,  Miss  Thorpe,  may  I  ask  you  a  question?  Why  did  your  brother 
fall  in  love  with  her  if  she  were  so  unlikely  to  suit  him?" 

Launcelot  often  asked  questions  that  would  be  impertinent  on  any  one 
part,  but  no  one  ever  took  offense.     Miss  Thorpe  seemed  to  think 
his  curosity  quite  natural;  he  and  Ivan  were  close  friends,  and  it  was 
only  right  that  he  should  know  all  the  ins  and  outs  of  this  wretched 
business.     She  rather  wished  to  tell  him  herself;  he  would  then  1 
plain  unvarnished  statement  of  facts  and  no  exaggeration,  and  she.  an- 
ed  with  (he  utmost  readiness,  though  with  a  slight  >hrug  of  the 
.should--:-.  "  U'hy  do  men  do  foolish  things?     Ivan  "is  not  the    only 
u  who  has  fallen  in  love  with  an  attractive  face  and  ]>}< 
u  always  admired  Joan,  she  was  very  tnkii 
ai.l,  though  I  never  agreed  with  them;  she  wa3  too  Irish  for  my 

"  Do  you  mean  she  is  Irish?" 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  59 

"  Yes,  on  the  father's  side;  he  was  one  of  those  impulsive,  hot-tem- 
pered Irishmen  that  one  dreads  to  have  much  to  do  with.  Oh,  I  wil'» 
allow  Joan  had  her  advantages;  her  mother  died  when  she  was  a  baby, 
and  she  was  only  fourteen  when  she  was  left  ail  orphan,  and  the  auut 
who  brought  her  up  was  one  of  those'  worldly,  scheming  women  that 
have  so  bad  an  influence  on  girls.  I  do  not  believe  she  had  any  love  for 
Ivan.  She  always  said  her  aunt  persuaded  her  to  marry  him  because 
she  was  so  poor;  but  still,  any  other  woman  would  have  learned  to  love 
him  when  she  came  to  see  how  good  he  was." 

"  That  is  what  Madella  sometimes  tells  the  girls — that  love  often 
comes  after  marriage." 

"  She  might  at  least  have  done  her  duty  to  him,  one  would  have 
thought:  common  gratitude  for  his  kindness  and  consideration  should 
have  kept  her  from  quarreling  with  his  sister  and  making  his  home  mis- 
erable," and  here  Miss  Thorpe's  mouth  grew  stern;  "  but  from  the  first 
Joan  set  herself  against  me." 

"  "Were  you  or  your  sister-in-law  the  mistress  of  the  house?"  asked 
Launcelot,  quietly.  "  Excuse  a  seemingly  rude  question,  Miss  Thorpe, 
but  you  are  admitting  me  to  peculiar  privilege*,  and  I  know  how  much 
depends  on  these  little  feminine  matters." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  mind  the  question.  I  want  you  to  see  exactly  how  we 
are  circumstanced;  of  course  I  knew  my  place — the  sister  had  to  give 
way  to  the  wife.  Joan  had  the  head  of  the  table,  and  the  keys.  I  gave 
no  orders,  after  she  entered  the  house;  was  it  my  fault,  Mr.  Chudleigh, 
that  she  knew  nothing  about  household  management,  that  everything 
was  out  of  gear  in  a  week,  and  that  both  the  servants  gave  warning? 
When  Ivan  complained,  I  refused  to  listen  to  him;  it  was  no  longer  iny 
province  to  interfere." 

"  I  think  you  showed  very  good  sense  in  this." 

"Indeed,  I  think  you  would  have  no  reason  to  find  fault  with  me 
unless  you  thought  it  wrong  for  me  to  remain  in  the  house;  but  Ivan 
and  I  had  never  been  separated.  I  had  no  other  home,  and  indeed  lie 
never  wished  to  part  with  me;  when  Joan  asked  him  to  choose  between 
us  he  refused  to  listen  to  her,  and  to  turn  his  only  sister  out  of  the 
house." 

"  Do  you  mean  she  wished  you  to  go?" 

"  I  suppose  so.  I  know  she  told  Ivan  over  and  over  again  that  she 
could  not  live  with  me,  that  I  chilled  and  misunderstood  her,  that  it  was 
bringing  ice  and  fire  together;  she  was  always  making  those  exaggerated 
speeches.  The  scenes  grew  intolerable  at  laet — even  Ivan  could  no 
longer  put  up  with  them.  Joan  had  the  most  passionate,  undisciplined 
nature;  it  wore  out  his  patience  at  last." 

Lauucelot  leaned  his  chin  on  his  hand,  and  seemed  to  cogitate  for  a 
mordent;  then  he  said,  in  a  cool  sort  of  voice — 

"  It  is  always  an  experiment  bringing  a  third  person  to  share  the  home 
of  a  young  couple;  it  requires  peculiar  tact  and  very  nice  discrimination 
to  steer  clear  of  concealed  quicksands.  I  rather  hold  myself  to  the  good 
old  words,  '  that  a  man  should  leave  his  father  and  brother,'  all  his  be- 
longings in  fact,  '  and  cleave  to  his  wife;'  there  are  always  dangerous 
ingredients  difficult  to  fuse  in  a  mixed  household." 

Miss  Thorpe  was  too  sensible  to  resent  this  speech,  which  certainl  ' 
held  a  truism,  but  she  colored  slightly  as  though  she  were  not  quiie 
pleased. 

"  I  dare  say  you  are  correct,  but  in  my  sister-in-law's  case  I  think  she 
had  no  right  to  feel  injured.  Ivan  spoke  to  her  very  early  in  their  ca 


60  ONLY   TIM:   «;OVI-:R\ESS. 

iciit;  he  told  her  that  IK-  still  wished  me  to  share  his  home,  and 
:  her  if  she  h;ul  any  objection,  and  she  made  none — oh,  none,  at  all. 
Of  course.  1  see  now  'that'  she  was  too  indifVerent  to  give  it  really  a 
thought.  When  she'  lirst  eaine  she  was  very  all'eetionate  in  her  manner 
to  nie,  and  said  once  or  t wire  how  nice  it  was  to  have  a  sister;  and  she 
tried  to  lind  out  Ivan's  tasles  from  me,  but  all  this  very  soon  chain 

"  I  suppose  you  hear  from  her  sometimes?"  but  this  abrupt  question 
seemed  to  take*  Miss  Thorpe  by  surprise,  and  for  the  lirst  time  she  hesi- 
tated. 

"  Well— no— at  leust,  I  have  riot  heard  for  along  time.  Ivan  likes 
ine  to  write— but— but— her  letters  always  make  me  angry;  she  always 
seems  to  imply  that  I  was  the  means  of  preventing  her  from  coming  to 
an  understanding  with  her  husband." 

Launcelot  looked  a  little  grave  at  this. 

"  I  wonder  how  it  would  be — "  and  then  he  stopped  and  began  again. 
"  Miss  Thorpe,  if  I  were  you,  I  would  bring  them  together  again:  your 
brother  must  want  his  wife,  a  man  when  he  is  once  married  can  not 
relish  a  bachelor  existence.  I  dare  say  she  made  him  miserable,  but  I 
think  he  should  give  her  another  chance;  incompatibility  of  temper; 
well,  that  is  a  poor  excuse  to  put  asunder  those  whom  God  has  joined 
together.  Of  course,  you  agree  with  me — every  woman  would  do  so. 
If  Mrs.  Thorpe  were  to  come  home,  and  you  were  to  live  close  by— I 
am  afraid  I  am  taking  a  liberty,  and  saying  too  much — but  it  is  your 
own  fault — " 

"  Oh,  I  do  not  mind,"  she  returned,  quietly,  but  her  mouth  was  very 
stern;  "  you  know  you  may  say  anything  you  like  to  us;  are  you  not 
our  friend,  one  of  ourselves?"  and  here  she  looked  at  him  wistfully. 
"  I  wish  I  could  convince  you  of  one  thing,  that  I  am  not  so  selfish  as  I 
appear;  if  it  were  for  Ivan's  good,  I  would  go  to-morrow.  I  would  seek 
— I  mean,  I  would  write  to — Joan  and  beg  her  to  come  back,  but  know- 
ing them  both  as  I  do,  I  can  not  do  this;  no,  I  would  rather  repeat  your 
words,  and  move  heaven  and  earth  to  keep  them  apart." 

There  was  a  momentary  flash  in  the  gray  penetrating  eyes  of  Launce- 
lot Chudleigh  as  Miss  Thorpe  said  this— a  wonderful  "interior  illumina- 
tion that  was  gone  in  a  second — and  then  all  he  said  was  this — 

"  Indeed?  Then  you  are  not  afraid  of  the  responsibility  of  deciding 
on  another  human  being's  happiness.  I  always  think  it  requires  the 
wisdom  of  omniscience  to  adjust  other  people's  circumstances,"  and 
though  Miss  Thorpe  felt  the  veiled  sarcasm  underlying  his  words,  she 
answered  with  the  utmost  mildness. 

"  I  think  you  would  modify  your  views  if  you  were  to  sec  Ivan  and 
his  wife  together.  She  brings  out  his  .weak  points — but,  hush!  there  is 
his  key  turning  in  the  lock,  he  must  not  know  we  have  been  talking  of 
this.  I  think  I  will  go  up  and  see  if  Dossie  is  awake.  Ivan  is  so  quick, 
he  always  notices  in  a  moment  if  I  am  agitated,"  but  as  Launcelot 
watched  her  put  a  chair  back  straight  that  was  somewhat  awry,  and 
move  a  stool  that  seemed  in  the  way,  he  thought  it  required  very  shrewd 
ihat  Mi-s  Thorpe  was  agitated.  The  next  moment  he  heard 
her  talking  to  her  brother  in  the  hall  in  her  usual  voice,  asking  him  if 
lie  were  tired,  and  begging  him  to  ring  lor  some  fresh  \< 

"Oh,    no,"  he   returned,    quickly.      "1     have   more   regard    for  my 
digestion  than  that:  it  is  only  you  women  who  c'in  all'ord  to   ! 
I  will  go  and  have  a  talk  with  Chudleigh  instead." 

"  You  look  done  up,"  was  his  first  observation  when  he  and  Launee- 
:-.itl  adjourned,  to  the  study,  and   I.  niiicd  the 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  61 

fact,  and  after  that  he  gave  rather  a  graphic  account  of  the  way  he  had 
spent  nis  time  since  morning,  and  Mr.  Thorpe  listened  with  his  usual 
air  of  quiet  interest. 

But  all  the  time  Launcelot  talked  he  felt  aware  that  his  manner  was 
different,  his  easy  enjoyment  of  his  friend's  conversation  and  ready 
sympathy  was  merged  into  something  that  was  anxious  and  yet  critical; 
he  seemed  to  be  looking  at  him  with  other  eyes,  to  be  searching  for 
some  evidence  that  he  required.  This  watchfulness  wearied  him,  and 
yet  through  the  whole  evening  he  never  relaxed  it,  and  more  than  once 
Miss  Thorpe's  manner  showed  a  shade  of  anxiety  as  Launcelot  answered 
with  unusual  absence  of  mind.  She  was  afraid  her  brother  would 
notice  that  he  was  unlike  himself,  but  Mr.  Thorpe  only  thought  he  was 
fagged  with  his  heavy  day's  work. 

Launcelot  very  nearly  betrayed  himself  once  in  an  unguarded  mo- 
ment; he  had  said  good-night,  but  Mr.  Thorpe  had  put  on  his  old  felt 
hat  and  had  sauntered  through  the  church-yard  with  him,  tempted  by 
the  mild  spring  atmosphere  and  the  beauty  of  the  startigbted  heavens.  In 
spite  of  his  fatigue,  Launcelot  could  not  refrain  from  rhapsodizing  a  lit- 
tle as  he  leaned  on  the  palings  and  watched  the  pale  glimmer  of  moon- 
light on  the  red-tiled  roofs  of  the  alms-houses,  while  the  aged  inhab- 
itants slept  peacefully  and  dreamed  the  dreams  of  old  age. 

"Don't  you  often  think  over  Carlyle's  words,  Thorpe:  'When  I 
gazed  into  those  stars,  have  they  not  looked  down  upon  me  as  with  pity, 
like  eyes  glSieuing  with  heavenly  tears  over  the  little  lot  of  man?  I 
always  think  starlight  harmonizes  even  with  one's  blackest  moods  '?" 

"  Oh.  I  am  no  poet,"  was  the  somewhat  scornful  reply  to  this,  but 
Launcelot  did  not  seem  to  hear;  he  was  trying  to  recall  a  passage  in 
some  essay  he  had  read  that  had  much  struck  him,  and,  as  his  way  was, 
he  began  half  unconsciously  to  repeat  it  aloud:  "  There  is  always  a  deep 
vein  of  sorrow  and  disappointment,  of  shadow  and  drawback,  in  every 
human  life.  One  man  wrote  '  Miserrimus  '  on  his  tomb,  and  there  are 
many  who  would  not  refuse  that  briefest,  saddest ,  and  most  significant 
of  epitaphs.  Whenever  I  come  to  know  people  whose  lot  seems  most 
enviable  and  brilliant,  I  know  that  it  is  only  a  matter  of  time,  and  I 
shall  unexpectedly  open  some  closet  door  and  discover  a  skeleton. "  But 
happily,  his  voice  dropped  over  the  concluding  sentence. 

"'  Are  you  quoting  something— it  hardly  sounds  like  extempore  phi- 
losophy," asked  Mr.  Thorpe,  impatiently. 

"  Oh,  it  is  something  I've  read;  1  have  a  habit  of  recollecting  things 
at  odd  moments.  Don't  take  any  notice:  I  am  in  a  pessimist  mood  — 
there  must  be  something  wrong  with  my  digestion." 

*'  You  are  tired,"  returned  his  friend,  putting  his  hand  on  his 
shoulder.  "You  have  put  yourself  in  that  poor  fellow's  place  until 
your  own  sympathy  has  worn  you  out;  you  will  not  be  yourself  until 
you  have  had  a  good  sleep.  Oh,  I  know  you  thoroughly;  you  pretend 
not  to  care  and  all  the  time  you  are  quite  miserable.  I  wish  I  were 
like  that;  I  suppose  I  have  my  feelings,  and  am  sorry,  too,  after  a  fash- 
ion, but  my  sympathy  has  never  spoiled  my  appetite  yet." 

"  You  mean  I  did  not  enjoy  my  dinner,'5  replied  Launcelot,  solemn- 
ly, as  they  walked  toward  the  cab-stand.  "  No  doubt  that  is  the  real 
cause  of  my  pessimism.  I  still  feel  remorse  for  lost  opportunities;  even 
the  prospect  of  enjoying  future  dinners  does  not  console  me  in  the  least 
Of  course  I  know  you  are  laughing,  Thorpe;  your  cool  temperament 
never  fashes  itself  with  these  trifles,  but  a  man's  dinner,  and  indeed  his 
breakfast,  are  serious  ingredients  in  hia  life's  well-being  or  ill-being, 


ONLY    THE 


•plicr  has  his  human  nmK"  I'mishr 
lot.  s!i'<'puy,  ;ti  whieh  Air.  Thorpe  only  laughed  again. 

"  Oli,  1  won't  argue  with  you  to-night:  we  arc  not  on  equal 
am  quite  frc.-h  ;md  shall  work  half  the  night,  and  you  ar< 
and  mind.      You  know  the  Creek  proverb,  'Sleep  is  the  modi,  i: 
every  disease.'     Try  it,  Chudleigh,  and  to-morrow  you  will  be  the 
impractical  optimist  that  has  so  often  put  me  out  of  patience. 
comes  cabby,  so  good-night!" 

But  Lauiicelot  made  oae  more  speech  that  night. 

''  My  friend,"  he  said  to  the  cabman,  as  he  drew  up  at  the  Wit 
"  when  you  are  old,  and  the  rheumatism  has  got  into  your  hone.- 
would  you  like  to  be  whipped  uphill  arid  refused  time  to  tak         nr 
breath?     If  you  had  shown  a  little  more  humanity  to  your  poor  i 

would  have  given  you  double  fare;  and,  indeed,  if  you  pron. 
that  whip  aside  you  may  have  an  extra  sixpence,"  and  then  IK 
on  his  heel  and  left  the  man  looking  dubiously  after  him. 

"  lie's  a  rum  customer,"  he  observed,  as  he  climbed  up  on 
again,  and  jerked  the  reins  as  a  reminder  that  the  old  mare  might  as 
well  be  quick  about  it. 

"  I  wonder  what  the  brutes  must  think  of  us,"  soliloquized  Launce- 
lot,  as  he  stood  in  the  glass  porch;  "some  of  them  must  fed  quite 
ashamed  of  human  acquaintances.  '  Which  of  us  two  is  the  brute?'  as 
the  ill-used  donkey  said  to  the  costermonger.  '  They  are  all  alike 
bruteses,'  as  that  poor  Irishwoman  remarked  to  me  one  day.  Well, 
Fen  wick,"  as  a  gray-haired  butler  opened  the  door,  "  any  news  of  the 
travelers?" 

"  No,  Mr.  Launcelot,  but  we  are  getting  the  rooms  ready  for  fear  of 
a  telegram." 

41  All  right;  it  is  best  to  be  beforehand,"  and  then  he  took  his  cham- 
ber candlestick  and  went  up  to  his  room. 


CHAPTER  X. 
"OXFORD  BLUE,  IF  YOU  PLEASE." 

Life  is  a  weariness  only  to  the  idle,  or  where  the  soul  is  empty;  and  hotter  than  to 
exist  thus  vacantly  is  it  for  longevity  as  to  birthdays  to  be  denied.— GRINDON. 

And  the  feeble  little  one  must  stand 
In  the  thickest  of  the  fight. 

ADELAIDE  ANM:  PUOCTKU. 

MR.  THORPE  was  perfectly  correct  in  his  prognostication.  Launce- 
lot  woke  to  fresh  energy  the  next  morning.  His  health  was  perfeet; 
and  a  few  hours'  sle^C after  any  great  strain  of  mind  or  body,  always 
restored  him.  He  was  too  strong  and  active,  too  full  of  life,  to  fed  the 
lassitude  of  weaker  mortals;  ennui  he  had  never  experienced,  inactivity 
imply  death  to  him.  The  torpid  condition  of  lymphatic  and  aim- 
less natures  drove  him  to  the  borders  of  irritability.  To  him  eha; 
work  was' perfect  rest,  and  a  day  overbrimming  with  employ  men  i  and 
human  interests  was  a  day  well  spent. 

He  was  going  down  to  Hampshire  that  afternoon,  to  spend  two  or 
three  days  at  a  friend's  country-house;  but  as  lie  dressed  himself  he 
planned  how  h<  '  d'ore  he  left,  town. 

He  interviewed  Mrs.  Fenwiek  while  he  eat  his  breakfast.     Six 
an  old  servant,  and  had  acted  as  nurse  to  all  his  step- brothers  ai- 
ters,  anO   now  she  tilled  the  position  of  general  supervisor,  or  house- 
keeper.    Sfce  had  left  the  Wi  tokens  for  u  few  years  on  her  marriage 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  63 

with  the  butler,  Y,ut  as  they  had  no  children  they  had  willingly  returned 
to  their  duties —Fenwick  especiall}',  who  thought  that  Mr.  Launcelot 
and  the  young  gentlemen  would  not  get  on  without  him. 

"  Yeni  see,  the  plate  and  the  cellar  has  always  been  on  Fenwick's 
mind-,"  observed  his  wife,  feelingly.  "  He  never  rightly  enjoyed  him- 
self worrying  how  Stewart  would  manage  them.  It  is  just  of  a  piece 
with  my  fretjting  over  the  linen,  and  I  see  there  is  a  hole  burned  right 
through  the  best  damask  table-cloth  all  along  of  Laura's  carelessness. 
But  there,  things  will  get  wrong  when  there  is  no  one  to  look  after 
them,"  finished  the  worthy  woman  with  a  sigh  of  content,  as  she  looked 
through  the  well  stored  presses. 

It  was  to  Mrs.  Fenwick  that  Lauucelot  gave  the  charge  of  his  pack- 
ing; for  though  he  could  be  self- helpful  on  occasion  there  was  no  one 
so  waited  upon.  The  household  in  general  vied  with  each  other  in  an- 
ticipating the  young  master's  wishes,  and  even  Neale,  the  solemn-faced 
groom,  brightened  when  the  order  was  given  to  him  to  bring  round  thcj 
phaeton  and  bay  mare,  as  tPiie  master  would  drive  himself  into  town. 

As  soon  as  Launcelot  had  finished  his  breakfast  and  glanced  at  the 
paper  he  went  through  the  hot-houses,  and  had  a  long  and  important 
consultation  with  the  gardener.  "  You  must  have  all  this  attended  to 
at  once,  Stokes,"  he  said,  very  seriously.  "The  mistress  and  the 
young  ladies  will.be  back  in  a  few  days,  and  they  will  soon  be  thinking 
of  their  tennis-parties.  Why,  it  is  April  now." 

"  Very  true,  Mr.  Launcelot,"  returned  Stokes,  in  his  usual  grumbling 
tones.  "  Miss  Beatrix  has  been  writing  about  the  new  fernery  she 
wants  made.  I  have  set  the  lads  to  dig  up  the  borders  this  very  morn- 
ing. They  were  wanted  for  the  drain-pipes  in  the  kitchen-garden,  but 
Miss  Beatrix's  orders  were  to  be  carried  out — so  her  ma  said— and  so, 
of  course,  t'other  job  must  wait." 

"  Oh,  of  course,  Stokes,  young  ladies  must  be  attended  to  first.  Let 
us  go  and  have  a  look  at  the  fernery;  '  behind  the  rosery  '  was  Miss 
Beatrix's  orders,  '  just  before  3^ou  come  to  me  terrace,'  "  and  disregard- 
ing the  old  man's  growls  that  he  could  not  leave  his  work,  Launcelot 
led  the  way  to  the  fernery 

After  this  he  went  into^iis  studio  and  wrote  a  letter  or  two,  and  then 
drawing  on  a  pair  of  imniaculate  driving-gloves  he  nodded  pleasantly 
to  Neale,  and  got  into  his  phaeton.  As  he  drove  rapidly  across  the 
common  and  down  the  hill  toward  Overton,  his  spirits  seemed  to  rise. 
He  had  to  check  his  mare  at  the  bridge,  for  the  little  toll-house  was 
still  fliere,  and  the  first  pile  of  the  new  bridge  had  not  yet  been  driven 
in.  But  Launcelot  was  conservative  in  his  tastes,  in  spite  of  his  love 
of  change,  and  the  old  wooden  bridge,  with  its  queer  old  toll-house, 
was  very  dear  to  him.  He  always  diove  over  it  slowly,  and  looked 
down  at  the  broad,  sunshiny  river,  with  its  steamers  and  barges  and 
tiny  boats.  The  gray  tower  of  Riversleigh  church  stood  out  distinct  and 
clearly  cut  against  the  soft  spring  sky;  the  trees  on  the  banks  made  a 
dark  background;  a  brown  sail  in  the  distance  gave  a  spot  of  pict- 
uresque color.  A  group  of  ragged  urchins  leaned  over  the  parapet  to 
see  the  steamer  lowering  ^its  funnel  as  it  passed  under  the  bridge;  a 
four-in-hand  dashed  over  it  at  the  same  moment  to  the  shrill  sound  of 
the  French  horn — sunshine,  movement,  happy  faces,  the  gleam  of  water, 
all  filled  Launcelot's  eyes  and  mind  with  a  sense  of  well-being  and  con- 
tentment. 

Just  at  the  entrance  of  Priory  Road  he  came  upon  Miss  Thorpe,  in 
her  neat  black  bonnet  and  cloak,  looking  the  very  personification  01 


OttLY     T  1-SS. 

brisk,  capable  middle  age,  and  always  to  Launcclot.'s  eyes  loo], 
thorough  gentlewoman.      He  gave  the  reins  to  Xcale  and  got  down  to 
speak  t'o  her.     She  seemed  somewhat  surprised  by  this  early  visit,  as  lie 
hail  told  them  he  was  going  down  to  Hampshire. 

"  You  must  not  be  too  anxious  about  Dossie,"  she  said,  in  quite  a 
motherly  voii-e.  "She  slept  very  well  last  night,  and  did  not,  disturb 
me  once";  but  she  seems  very  weak,  and  hardly  able  to  hold  up  her  head 
this  morning.  AVe  must  give  her  time  to  recover  herself;  she  has  evi- 
dently been  overstrained." 

"  Is  she  not  up,  Miss  Thorpe?"  asked  Launcelot,  vaguely  auxin 
this  account,  and  wishing  heartily  that  his  step-mother  were  in   Kng- 
land. 

"  Oh,  yes:  she  would  get  up  and  dress  herself.  I  could  not  induce 
her  to  lie  in  bed:  she  is  on  the  couch  in  the  drawing-room.  Shall  I 
come  back  with  you,  or  would  you  rather  see  her  alone V" 

"  I  think  we  shall  get  on  better  alone,  thank  you,  and  it  is  a  pity  to 
hinder  you.  You  look  dreadfully  business-like,  Miss  Thorpe.  I  expect 
you  are  going  to  your  office?" 

"  Yes,  for  a  few  hours,  but  Merton  will  look  after  Dossie,  Well,  my 
time  is  certainly  precious,  so  I  will  say  good-bye,"  and  she  shook  hand's 
cordially,  and  walked  on. 

Launcelot  knew  instinctively  why  Dossie  had  insisted  on  dressing 
herself  and  going  down-stairs.  She  was  expecting  him;  he  was  sure 
of  it,  when  he  opened  the  drawing-room  door  and  saw  her  small,  eager 
face;  she  was  sitting  up  among  the  pillows  with  a  red  spot  on  either 
cheek  and  her  eyes  wide  with  expectation. 

But  the  sight  of  his  familiar  smile  brought  back  the  events  of  yester- 
day too  vividly,  for  before  he  could  reach  her  she  had  covered  her  faeo 
with  her  hands,  and  it  went  to  his  heart  to  hear  her  pitiful  sobs — ' '  Oh, 
Mr.  Lance!  Mr.  Lance!" 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  what  is  it?"  he  said,  sitting  down  beside  her  and 
stroking'  the  fair  tangled  hair.  "  You  must  not  cry  when  you  see  me, 
Dossie,  or  I  shall  think  you  are  not  pleased  to  see  me." 

"  Ah,  but  I  am.  I  have  wanted  you  so,  and  now — "  but  she  could 
say  no  more,  only  her  convulsive  clasp  of  his  hand,  and  the  way  she 
laid  her  cheek  against  it,  spoke  volumes  to  Launcelot.  lie  was  the 
only  link  with  her  old  life  in  her  utter  desolation.  In  the  unfathered 
blank  of  her  present  existence,  his  face  seemed  the  only  familiar  object 
to  the  lonely  child — the  only  one  in  this  great,  strange  world  who  could 
talk  to  her  of  her  father. 

Launcelot  understood  this,  and  he  was  very  patient  with  her  tears. 
>n  as  she  could  listen  to  him,  he  told  her  all  she  wanted  to  know: 
how  her  father  had  looked  and  what  he  had  said,  and  the  last  m. 
he  had  sent  her,  and  how  he  hoped  she  would  soon  begin  a  letter  lo 
him. 

"  And  if  I  were  you,  Dossie,"  he  went  on,  cheerfully,  "  I  would  set 
about  it  very  soon;  not  to-day  because  your  head  aches,  but  to-mor- 
row, or  the  next  day.  You  need  not  write  much  to  tire  yourself,  but 
just  a  little  every  day — what  you  are  doing,  and  what  you  think  of 
your  new  friends.  You  have  not  seen  Mr.  Thorpe  yet,  but  his  E 
she  is  very  nice  and  kind,  and  I  am  sure  she  was  good  to  you  y 

"  Oh,  yes  she  is  a  very  kind  lady,"  returned  Dossie,  sedately.    "  Six- 
was  good  to    1 5eppo  too,  thouuh  she  says  she  does  not  like  puppies  and 
:  hud  one  in  her  room  before;  but,  \Ir.  Lance,  she  says, it  is  naughty 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  65 

to  make  myself  ill  with  fretting,  but — but  how  am  I  to  live  without  fa- 
ther?" 

"  My  dear  child,"  returned  Launcelot,  gravely,  "  there  are  other  chil- 
dren who  are  more  unhappy  than  you,  whose  father  will  never  come 
back  to  them  again.  There  was  one  little  girl  I  knew,  whose  father 
died,  and  she  had  no  mother,  and  her  case  was  sadder  than  yours,"  and 
then  he  stopped,  for  the  recollection  was  a  painful  one.  The  child  had 
been  sickly,  and  she  had  pined  and  wasted  in  her  uncongenial  home 
among  strangers,  and  had  soon  followed  her  father.  No,  he  would  not 
tell  her  about  poor  little  Gretchen,  and  yet  the  child  had  died  with  her 
hand  in  his  and  a  smile  on  her  face.  "  Lebewohl,  mein  Herr,"  had 
been  her  last  words  to  him,  and  then,  "  Im  Himmel  ach  der  liebe 
Vatcr,"  faintly  articulated  with  her  failing  breath. 

No,  he  would  not  talk  about  little  Gretchen.  The  child  had  a 
pulmonary  complaint,  and  would  never  have  grown  into  healthy  wom- 
anhood. Dossie  was  of  a  different  caliber  altogether;  she  was  only  over- 
strained, as  Miss  Thorpe  had  sitid,  so  he  evaded  her  question  about  the 
little  girl  and  suddenly  asked  her  if  she  would  make  him  a  pincushion, 
"  for  I  have  only  this,  Dossie,"  pulling  out  a  faded  one  from  hig 
pocket;  "  this  was  Sybil's  work,  and  she  was  very  proud  of  it,  but  you 
see  all  the  color  is  gone.  I  should  like  a  dark-blue  one  for  the  boat 
race— Oxford  color,  you  know.  Miss  Thorpe  will  tell  you  all  about  it, 
and  it  must  be  just  the  size  to  slip  into  my  waistcoat  pocket,  and  I 
should  like  black  and  white  pins  placed  alternately;  and  it  must  be  Ox- 
ford-blue, if  you  please." 

Dossie's  miserable  little  face,  sodden  with  much  crying,  looked  a 
shade  less  woe-begone  as  Launcelot  held  forth  about  the  pincushion. 
She  even  agreed  that  Merton  should  be  summoned,  and  the  shade  of 
the  silk  left  to  her  selection, 

"  And  while  you  are  about  it,  you  might  make  one  for  my  brother 
Geoffrey,  too;  he  is  a  very  nice  fellow,  Dossie,  and  I  know  he  would  be 
ever  so  much  obliged  to  you."  And  as  Merton  undertook  to  go  to  the 
haberdasher's  at  once,  Dossie  promised  that  she  would  set  about  them 
that  very  afternoon.  "  And  a  turn,  in  the  garden  would  do  Beppo 
good,"  went  on  Launcelot,  with  a  serious  face;  "  he  does  not  seem  quite 
himself,"  which  was  the  fact,  as  the  little  animal  had  been  eating  too 
much,  and  was  suffering  the  consequences  of  excessive  repletion;  "a 
little  fresh  air  would  be  extremely  beneficial  to  him,"  and  Dossie  was 
induced  to  promise  that  she  would  take  the  puppy  for  an  airing. 

He  left  her  soothed  and  pacified  by  his  promise  to  come  soon  again 
and  to  take  her  and  Beppo  for  a  walk.  "  You  will  be  a  good  child 
until  you  see  me  again,"  he  said,  lifting  the  little  hands  to  his  lips,  but 
Dossie,  not  content  with  this,  tlirew  her  arms  round  his  neck.  "  I  will 
be  good.  I  will  try  to  be  good,  Mr.  Lance,  but  I  do  ache  so."  "  Poor 
little  thing,"  he  returned,  smiling  at  her  with  full  sympathy,  and,  in 
spite  of  herself,  Dossie  felt  comforted;  for  even  a  childish  burden  can 
be  lifted  by  a  word  of  kindness,  and  a  cup  of  cold  water  given  to  one 
of  these  little  ones  may  prove  a  fountain  of  refreshment.  A  grain  of 
dust  is  a  mountain  of  care  to  the  toiling  ant,  and  a  child's  heart-break 
is  veritable  heart-break,  though  it  may  be  easily  consoled;  perhaps 
Launcelot's  sunshiny  influence  was  never  more  powerful  for  good  than 
when  Dossie  dried  her  eyes  at  his  persuasion,  and  undertook  her  labori- 
ous task  of  pincushion-making. 

Miss  Thorpe  could  hardly  believe  the  evidence  of  her  senses  when  she 
returned  that  afternoon  and  found  Dossie  sitting  up  among  the  sofa  cush- 


06  ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS. 

ions  with  a  small  table  before  her  strewn  with  card-board  and  snippcti 
of  dark-blue  ribbon,  while  the  result  of  an  hour's  labor  was  mani! 
a  tiny  pincushion. 

The  child  looked  flushed  and  weary,  but  she  held  it  up  triumphantly 
for  Miss  Thorpe's  inspection. 

"  Look  here,  I  have  done  this  all  myself.  Mr.  Lance  asked  me  to 
make  it,  he  wanted  a  pincushion  so  badly,  and  it  was  to  be  a  tiny, 
weeny  thing  for  life  waistcoat  pocket." 

"  Why,  you  have  done  it  beautifully.  You  are  a  clever  little  girl, 
Dossie,  returned  Miss  Thorpe,  with  warm  approval,  and  a  smile  of 
pleasure  crossed  Dossie's  face;  she  gazed  at  her  handiwork  proudly. 

"  It  ought  to  be  nice  for  him,"  she  replied,  "  and  I  like  <! 
He  asked  me  to  make  one  for  his  brother  Geoffrey,  and  I  was  thinking  " 
— here  her  manner  grew  reflective—"  that  perhaps  Bernard  would  like 
one  too,  and  there  is  Fred— onSy  they  call  him  Freckles." 

"  Yes,  and  I  am  sure  my  brother  would  be  most  gratified  for  one," 
returned  Miss  Thorpe,  with  ready  tact;  and  though  after  a  time 
sie's  interest  waxed  languid,  and  she  pushed  away  her  work  a  little 
fretfully,  Miss  Thorpe  wisely  took  1*0  notice;  but  when  tea  was  brought 
in  she  talked  to  her  about  some  poor  children  for  whom  she  and  Merlon 
were  hard  at  work,  and  she  described  their  wretched  condition  so 
graphically  that  Dossie  soon  fell  into  the  trap,  and  at  once  offered  to 
make  a  gayly  striped  pinafore  for  the  baby. 

Dossie  did  not  see  Mr.  Thorpe  for  two  or  three  days  after  her  arrival. 
Without  being  actually  ill,  she  continued  very  weak  and  ailing,  and 
though  she  occupied  herself  during  a  few  hours  in  the  day,  she  still 
moped  and  fretted  miserably;  indeed,  more  than  once  Miss  Thorpe 
feared  that  the  child  would  really  be  ill.  She  grew  thinner;  there  were 
always  black  lines  under  her  eyes,  and  she  feared  that  she  cried  herself 
every  night  to  sleep,  for  often  as  she  listened  outside  the  door  she  would 
hear  the  plaintive  cry:  "  Father,  oh,  father,  dear,  I  do  want  you 
followed  by  a  smothered  sob. 

"  Poor  little  soul!"  Miss  Thorpe  would  say,  but  she  never  entered  tho 
room.     She  was  very  kind  to  Dossie,  very  wise  and  judicious  in  her 
treatment  of  the  child,  but  it  was  not  her  nature  to  spoil  any  one. 
Dossie  had  clung  to  her  at  the  first  moment,  attracted  by  her  kind  eyes 
and  the  mildness  of  her  voice,  but  she  never  gave  way  in  her  pre 
again.     Miss  Thorpe  had  a  bracing  philosophy  of  her  own,  though  .she 
rarely  preached  it.    She  thought  too  much  petting  was  bad  for  children, 
and  though  she  liked  to  have  them  about  her,  and  always  made  them 
happy,  they  did  not  attach  themselves  to  her  as  they  did  to  her  brother; 
unconsciously  they  were  always  on  their  best  behavior  in  her 
All  her  life  she  had  worked  for  the  neglected  children  of  the  metro, 
and  it  was  a  work  for  which  she  would  have  laid  down  her  life;  but  no 
passionate  maternal  love  throbbed  in  her  heart  for  any  individual  child. 
Even  the  little  ones  whom  she  had  saved  from  cruel  parents,  whom  she 
had  clothed  and  fed  often  at  her  own  expense,  were  not  nearer  to  her 
inner  consciousness  than  hosts  of  others  whom  she  hoped  to  n 
For  she  was  a  philanthropist  ill  its  broadest  and  v,  .  ,  and  any 

1  affection  such  as  Launcelot  lavished  on  his  protegee  would  have 
seemed  to  her  to  narrow  and  routine  her  sympathies. 

'•  AVe   must  ;dl  go  through  it,"  she  would  Kiirh  as  she  went  down- 

with  Dossie's  tremulous  little  voice  ringing  painfully  in  her 
"  Man,  and  woman,  too,  is  born  to  trouble,  but  she  is  young  to  be 
And  it  never  occurred  to  her  that  >-!.  ,ke  the  tired  lit! 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  67 

her  shoulder  and  comfort  her.  "  Children  only  give  way  all  the  more 
if  they  are  noticed,"  she  would  say;  and  to  this  rule  she  allowed  no  ex- 
ception. 

Dossie  had  not  yet  seen  Mr.  Thorpe,  but  one  day  when  Launcelot  had 
written  to  say  that  he  should  be  detained  a  little  longer  in  Hampshire, 
Miss  Thorpe  read  the  letter  to  Dossie,  and  then  she  asked  her  pleasantly 
if  she  would  take  it  into  her  brother'* study,  and  carry  him  a  cup  of  tea 
at  the  same  time. 

Dossie  was  not  shy  with  strangers,  so  she  made  no  objection  to  this, 
and  a  few  minutes  afterward  Mr.  Thorpe  heard  a  smn'll  wxice  at  his 
elbow,  and  turning  round  in  some  surprise,  saw  Dossie's  pale  face  and 
large,  wistful  eyes  raised  to  his. 

For  one  moment  his  fastidious  taste  suffered  a  brief  shock  at  the  sight 
of  Launcelot's  new  protegee.  Miss  Thorpe  had  been  right  when  she 
said  her  brother  liked  pretty  children,  for  he  was  a  man  most  keenly 
sensitive  to  outward  beauty,  and  Dossie  was  by  no  means  a  pretty  child. 

It  needed  some  discernment  to  detect  future  possibilities  in  the  quaint, 
old-fashioned  face  and  figure  which  the  shabby  brown  frock  certainly 
did  not  set  off  to  advantage.  Launcelot,  who  was  an  artist,  had  once 
looked  critically  at  the  garment  in  question.  "  Madella  will  alter  all 
that,"  he  said  to  himself;  "  dress  will  do  a  great  deal  for  Dossie,  her 
pale  tints  want  warmth  and  color."  But  Mr.  Thorpe,  who  was  neither 
artist  nor  poet,  may  be  forgiven  if  he  thought  Dossie  a  very  ordinary 
specimen  of  childish  humanity.  But  he  hid  these  feelings  and  addressed 
her  very  kindly. 

"  So  you  are  little  Miss  Weston,  are  you?"  he  said,  quietly. 

"  Yes,  I  am  Dossie,"  and  pushing  the  tea-cup  toward  him,  "  I  have 
brought  you  your  t$a  and  Mr.  Lance's  letter." 

"  Thank  you,  my  dear.  I  will  see  what  our  friend  has  to  say  for 
himself.  Will  you  stop  and  talk  to  me  a  little,  or  would  you  rather  go 
back  to  Rachel?" 

"  Oh,  I  will  stop  here,  please,"  returned  Dossie,  without  hesitation, 
feeling  she  had  been  on  her  good  behavior  long  enough,  and,  like  all 
children,  ready  for  anything  in  the  shape  of  novelty;  "  that  is,  if  I 
shall  not  be  in  your  way." 

"Oh,  no.  I  like  little  girls  to  keep  me  company,"  replied  Mr. 
Thorpe,  pleased  by  this  ready  courtesy;  and,  indeed,  there  was  a  gen- 
tleness and  innate  good  breeding  in  Dossie  that  always  won  people  after 
a  time.  "  So  Mr.  Chudleigh  can  not  get  away  just  yet.  Well,  I  hope 
you  can  make  yourself  happy  with  us  a  little  longer." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  returned  Dossie,  with  grave  politeness.  "  I  like  being 
here.  Miss  Thorpe  is  teaching  me  to  make  clothes  for  poor  children, 
but  of  course  I  shall  like  to  live  with  Mr.  Lance  best.  You  like  Mr, 
Lance  too,  do  you  not?"  fixing  her  eyes  on  Mr.  Thorpe's  face. 

Now,  why  it  came  into  his  mind  to  tell  her  he  never  could  quite  make 
out,  but  the  next  moment  his  arm  was  round  Dossie,  holding  her  in 
quite  a  fatherly  fashion,  and  he  was  telling  her  about  that  terrible 
scene  in  the  Engadine,  to  which  Dossie  listened  with  wide  eyes  and 
rapt  attention. 

"  Oh,"  she  sighed,  drawing  a  deep  breath  when  he  had  finished  this 
fascinating  recital,  "  how  you  mast  love  Mr.  Lance!" 

Mr.  Thorpe  made  no  response  to  this;  he  was  asking  himself  why  he 
had  told  this  story,  but  the  answer  did  not  seem  forthcoming.  He  had 
never  spoken  of  it  to  any  one,  and  yet  this  little  stranger  girl  with  her 
large,  solemn,  blue  eyes  had  drawn  it  from  him. 


68  ONLY    THE    COY 

"I  think,"  went  on  Dossie,  clamping  her  hands  together  in  her  old- 
fashioned  way,  "  that  Mr.  Lanee  is  as  bravo  as  those  old  knights  father 
talks  about;  one  of  them  had  .Mr.  Lance's  name." 

"  Ah,  Sir  Lauucclot;  but  he  was  not  always  brave,  Dossio;  lie  could 
do  a.  mean  thing,  though  he  repented  it  afterward,  and,"  ho  muttered 
half  to  himself,  "  '  so  groaned  Sir  Launeelot  in  remorseful  pain,  not 
knowing  he  should  die  a  holy  man.'  I  think  Sir  Galahad  was  a  bettor 
sort  of  fellow,  by  all  accounts." 

"  Father  was  'always  sorry  for  Sir  Launcelot,"  returned  Dossie,  seri- 
ously; "he  loved  the  queen  and  made  poor  King  Arthur  unhappy. 
Mr.  Lance  would  never  make  anyone  unhappy;  he  would  rather  die 
first.  Oh,  I  know  all  about  him.  He  is  so  good,  and  1  am  sure  his 
life  ought  to  be  written  too,"  went  on  Dossie,  who  certainly  had  a  pas- 
sion for  biographies,  and  always  desired  to  immortalize  her  d 
friends 

"  There  speaks  a  kind  little  friend,"  was  Mr.  Thorpe's  reply  to  this. 
"  Yes,  this  second  Launcelot  is  a  grand  fellow,  but  we  will  not  tell  him 
so,  Dossie,  or  he  will  get  conceited,  and  conceited  people  are  a  bore." 

But  Dossie  would  not  allow  this.  She  maintained  with  a  good  deal 
of  heat  that  Mr.  Lance  could  never  be  conceited,  and  they  had  quite  an 
argument  on  the  subject. 

"  That  child  is  very  original,"  was  Mr.  Thorpe's  comment  that  even- 
ing to  his  sister  when  Dossie  had  gone  to  bed.  ' '  Chudleigh  is  not  so 
wrong,  after  all.  She  is  an  interesting  little  creature." 

"Not  to  me,"  replied  Miss  Thorpe,  placidly.  "1  like  her,  but  she 
does  not  interest  me  as  Jessie  and  Maud  Sothern  did." 

"  Oh,  they  are  a  different  sort,"  returned  her  brother,  but  he  said  no 
more;  only  Miss  Thorpe  noticed  that  the  next  day  Dossie  volunteered 
to  take  in  the  cup  of  tea  to  Ivan,  and  that  she  remained  a  long  time  in 
the  study. 

And  the  next  afternoon  she  was  watching  at  the  window  anil  ran  to 
the  door  to  let  him  in,  and  Mr.  Thorpe,  seeing  that  the  child  showed  a 
decided  predilection  for  his  society,  good-naturedly  kept  her  witli  him, 
and  gave  her  employment  in  tidying  sundry  drawers,  and  tearing  up 
paper. 

.Miss  Thorpe  smiled  benevolently  when  she  found  them  busily  em- 
ployed. "  Children  are  always  happy  with  Ivan;  he  has  the  best  heart 
in  the  world.  If  he  had  only  a  little  girl  of  his  own!"  she  thought,  as 
with  a  sigh  she  went  back  to  her  sewing-machine. 


CHAPTEK  XI. 

THE  GREEN  DOOB  IN  THE  WALL. 

Beauty  consists  of  a  certain  composition  of  color  and  figure,  causing  delight  in 
the  beholder.— LOCKE. 

The  old  definition  of  beauty  in  the  Roman  school  was  "  multitude  in  unity,"  and 
there  is  no  doubt  that  such  is  the  principle  of  beauty.— COLERIDGE. 

DOSSIE  had  been  little  more  than  a  week  at  Priory  Road  when  one 
afternoon  as  she  was  sitting  at  work  with  Miss  Thorpe  there  was  a 
knock  at  the  door,  and  the  next  moment,  Launcelot  entered  the  room. 

Aquicksflush  rose  to  Dossio's  laee.  but  her  gladness  seemed  of  the 
silent  sort.  She  hardly  looked  up  as  Launcelot  bent  over  her  with  a 
kind  inquiry;  but  lie  had  seen  the  sudden  Hush  of  joy  in  her  eyes  and 
knew  that,  her  child-like  frame  was  trembling  with  suppressed  feeling, 


ONLY    THE    GOYEBKESS,  69 

so  he  prudently  left  her  alone  for  a  few  minutes,  and  then  he  said,  in  a 
quiet,  inatter-of-fact  tone,  "It  is  a  lovely  afternoon;  don't  you  think  a 
run  on  the  common  would  do  Dossie  and  Beppo  good,  Miss  Thorpe?  I 
have  sent  on  my  luggage  to  the  Witchens,  and  I  have  nothing  on  earth 
to  do  with  myself." 

"  I  think  it  is  a  very  good  idea,"  returned  Miss  Thorpe,  briskly.  She 
was  turning  the  heel  of  a  stocking  as  she  spoke.  "  Run  and  put  on 
your  hat,  my  dear,"  and  Dossie  obeyed,  nothing  loath.  Launcelot 
waited  until  she  had  closed  the  door,  and  then  he  said,  in  a  dissatisfied 
voice — 

"  Dossie  does  not  do  you  credit;  she  looks  dwindled  somehow.  I 
hardly  know  how  to  express  it." 

"  She  has  fretted  so,"  returned  Miss  Thorpe,  quietly;  "  most  children 
forget  their  troubles  in  a  week,  but  Dossie  broods  too  much  over  hers. 
She  has  a  great  deal  of  character  for  her  age.  Ivan  takes  a  great  in- 
terest in  her,  and  sometimes  succeeds  in  rousing  her,  but  I  generally 
found  it  answered  better  to  leave  her  alone."  Launcelot  made  no  reply; 
he  thought  Dossie  looked  as  though  she  had  been  too  much  alone,  but 
he  was  quite  aware  of  Miss  Thorpe's  theories  on  this  subject;  she  was  & 
rigid  disciplinarian. 

"  I  dare  say  her  method  would  answer  with  most  children,"  he  saidl 
to  himself,  "  but  I  fancy  she  does  not  quite  hit  it  off  with  Dossie;"  but 
he  was  too  lazy  for  an  argument,  so  he  watched  the  firm  white  hands 
and  flashing  knitting-needles  for  a  few  minutes,  and  then  he  said — 

"  I  shall  not  need  to  trouble  you  must  longer  with  Dossie.  I  am  ever 
so  much  obliged  to  you  for  all  you  have  done  for  her;  ray  people  will  be 
back  to-morrow." 

"  Ah,  indeed,"  glancing  at  him  with  interest;  "  then  you  are  going 
to  sleep  at  the  Witcheus  to-night?" 

"  Yes,  I  came  up  on  purpose  to  be  ready  to  welcome  them.  I  shall 
tell  Madella  that  I  shall  never  consent  to  this  wholesale  flitting  again. 
I  have  been  quite  lost  without  them  all.  I  declare  it  will  be  a  treat  to 
box  Freckles 's  ears  again;  the  young  monkey  arrives  to-morrow  from 
Uppinghum." 

"  I  always  told  Ivan  that  you  were  cut  out  for  a  married  man,"  re- 
turned Miss  Thorpe,  smiling;  "  in  spile  of  your  roaming  propensities 
your  tastes  are  decidedly  domestic, "  and  though  Launcelot  smiled  at 
this  shrewd  remark,  he  looked  a  little  queer  over  it  too. 

Dossie's  entrance  spared  him  any  necessity  for  reply,  and  he  rose  at 
once,  saying  they  must  not  waste  any  more  time.  Miss  Thorpe  followed 
them  to  the  door  to  ask  him  to  take  a  hansom  up  the  hill,  as  Dossie  was 
not  strong  enough  for  so  long  a  walk,  and  to  this  he  agreed  at  once. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  glancing  at  her  serious  little  face  in  its  old-fashioned 
gray  hood — and  he  was  amused  to  see  how  people  looked  at  them,  and 
no  wonder,  for  the  young  man's  graceful  figure  in  his  light,  well-cut 
overcoat  made  a  strange  foil  to  the  pale,  tired-looking  child  in  her  out- 
grown brown  frock  and  shabby  cloak — "  well,  Dossie,  and  so  you  are 
pleased  to  see  me  this  time;  and  now  is  that  letter  written?" 

"  Oh,  yes,"  returned  Dossie,  breathlessly,  "  and  it  is  such  a  long  one. 
I  have  told  father  everything — oh,  everything — only  now  and  then  I 
could  not  help  making  a  blot  or  smudge-— when  I  could  not  help  crying, 
you  know,  and  so  I  am  afraid  if  father  can  read  it." 

"  Ah,  we  must  alter  that,"  replied  Launcelot,  in  his  quick,  alert  man- 
ner; not  for  worlds  would  he  have  Jack  see  that  poor  blotted  little  effu- 
sion all  ink-stains  and  tears;  what  father  could  have  borne  such  a  sight! 


70  ONLY     ! 

"  I  will  tell  you  what  you  must  do.  !  >u  must  Ji: 

of   paper  and   a  new  pen,  and  copy  out  every  word,  and  tin 

no  blots  and  no  stains,  and  then  I  will  put  il  "in  tin  envelops  and  j. 

and  when  .lai-k  gets  it  he  will   say,  '  \Vhat  pains  that  dear  child  must 

have  taken!     I  can  read  every  word  as  clearly  as  print,'  "  and  i 

wa*  charmed  with  this  advice. 

He  a-ked  her  presently  when  the  hansom  had  put  them  down  and 
liiev  were  walking  hand  'in  hand  over  the  wide  breezy  common,  with 
Beppo  rollicking  after  them  in  puppy  fashion,  how  she  liked  be: 
Priory  Koad,  and  if  she  were  rather  fond  of  her  new  friends. 

"  Oh,  I  like  it  pretty  well,"  returned  Dossie,  sedately.    "  I  think  Miss 
Thorpe  is  good  to  everybody.     She  does  speak  so  kindly  to  all  tin 
old  women  we  meet,  and  when  she  scolds  she  scolds  beautifully,  with- 
out looking  really  veqr  angry,  you  know.     One  mas  AN 
her— oh,  he  frightened  me  so,  but  Miss  Thorpe  was  not  a  bit  frig],; 
she  told  him  he  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  himself  to  speak  so  to  a  lady, 
and  he  actually  minded  her  and  went  away.     I  think  every  one  minus 

Thorpe,"  finished  Dossre,  in  a  meditative  manner,  "  but  I  lik. 
Thorpe   best."       Launcelot    turned  round  at  this;    he  looked   rather 
pleased.     "  You  are  a  sensible  child,"  he  said;  "there  is  not  a  better 
fellow  living  than  Thorpe,  but  I  hardly  expected  you  to  find  that  out." 

"  Oh,  1  liked  him  ever  since  he  talked  about  you,"  went  on  Dossie. 
"  He  is  very  quiet.     Sometimes  he  hardly  speaks,  and  theu  all  at  once 
lie  wakes  up,  and  says  something  nice.     He  is  not  as  nice  as  you,  Mr. 
Lance,  of  course  not,  but  he  is  trustable,"  airing  her  favorite 
again.  ^/ 

Launcelot  chuckled.  "  She  is  wonderfully  knowing, "  he  said  to  him- 
self. "  Thorpe  is  worth  his  weight  in  gold,  and  she  has  found  it  out," 
and  then  he  roused  himself  and  changed  the  subject. 

"  Don't  you  like  this  common,  Dossie?  I  wish  you  and  Beppo  would 
have  a  race  together  down  that  palh;"  but  the  child  shook  her  head. 

"  I  don't  feel  like  running,  Mr.  Lance.  I  like  to  keep  with  you  here. 
Oh,  yes;  1  think  it  is  a  beautiful  place— so  wide,  all  bushes  and  sky,  and 
the  birds  sing  so." 

"  You  should  hear  them  in  the  early  morning.     Now,  do  you  si 
long  wall  with  all  those  glass  houses?    Lpok  how  far  it  goes." 

"  Oh,  yes.  What  a  big  place!  I  vender  who  lives  there— some  one 
very  rich?" 

"Well,  I  will  tell  you.     Launcelot  Chudleigh,  Esq.,  R.  A.,   lives 
there.     Dear  me,  what  great  eyes,  Dossie!     Yes,  that  is  the  Win 
and  this  is  Brentwood  Common.     Look  how  the  common  stret<  i 
.rden  wall,  and  shuts  us  in  all  round— nothing  but  gorge  and  \ 
berry  Bushes.     And  there  is  the  little  town  of  Brentwood;  and  all  along 
there  in  the  distance  there  are  line  big  houses  standing  back  from  the 
road,  and  a  pond  where  the  boys  slide,  and—"  but  I  inter- 

rupted him. 

"  You  live  here,  Mr.  Lance?  Oh,  I  had  no  idea  you  we;. 
What  a  lovely  big  place;  and,  oh  dear,  is  that  th<  garde: 
should  like  to  see  it!" 

"  And  so  you  shall,"  was  the  answer;  and    to   Do>sieV  immen 

produced   a   key  from   his  pcckel,  and.  'i.  into 

lopr  in  tin-  Wall  that  i  i  hardly  n 

\i  worn  stone  >trpv      "  ()j  r  l;idy>hij 

me  aloiiif,  DM--H-;   th  \vhy  1   should 

LOW  you   the  garden  and  the  hot  house*.      You  i, 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  71 

flowers  if  you  like.  Stokes  won't  take  any  notice,"  he  muttered,  "  and 
we  need  not  go  near  the  house;"  and  the  child  followed  him  delightedly 
up  the  steps,  which  lauded  them  on  a  broad  gravel  terrace  with  seats  at 
either  end.  The  wall  was  low,  and  even  Dossie  could  see  the  stretch  of 
common,  dotted  over  with  seats,  with  the  wide  sky-Hue,  the  whole  pros- 
pect bathed  in  the  soft,  clear  light  of  a  spring  afternoon.  Launeelot 
leaned  his  arms  on  the  wall,  and  gazed  abstractedly  into  the  distance. 
"  How  I  love  spring,"  he  said,  more  to  himself  than  to  Dossie.  "  It  is 
the  time  for  youth,  for  hope,  for  love — so  Tennyson  says,  at  least.  Isn  t 
it  in  '  Locksley  Hall  '  that  he  says— 

"  '  In  the  spring  a,  livelier  iris  changes  on  the  burnished  <:< 

In  the  spring  a.  young  man's  fancy  lightly  turns  to  thoughts  of  love-/ 


That  is  why  one  hears  of  so  many  matches,  I  suppose,  made  up  in  the 
n.     '  We  are  desired  to  announce  that  a  marriage  will  shortly  come 
oil  between  the  Hon.  Algernon  Featherhead  and  Lady  Fatima  Grildes- 
leigh. '     One  could  annotate  '  Locksley  Hall '  thus : 

"  'In  the  spring  maneuvering  mothers  whisper  in  a  stern  aside, 
"  He  is  but  the  second  brother;  you  must  never  be  his  bride'/'  ' 

Bad  for  Geoffrey,  that;  but  let  us  continue.     I  feel  inspired: 

"  '  In  the  spring  the  ball-room  darlings  mind  their  ma  and  whisper  low, 
Saying,  "Dost  thou  love  me,  Baron?"— sighing,  "  I  have  loved  thee  so." 
Love  took  up  that  stately  Baron—' 

Oh,  by  Jove— no — impossible!" 

And  the  reason  of  this  sudden  exclamation  on  Launcelot's  part,  and 
why  he  broke  off  his  absurd  doggerel  rhyme  and  looked  exceedingly 
disconcerted  and  foolish,  was  owing  to  the -fact  that  a  tall,  handsome 
young  lady  had  just  stepped  out  from  the  shrubbery  that  closed  in  the 
terrace  and  was  standing  regarding  him  with  intense  astonishment. 

"  I  thought  I  heard  voices,"  she  said,  as  though  still  incredulous  of 
her  eyes,  "  but  I  could  not  be  sure.  Have  you  scaled  the  wall,  Mr. 
Chudleigh?  And,  oh  dear,  there  is  a  little  girl  too." 

"Miss  Rossiter,"  returned  Launeelot,  in  a  most  bewildered  voice, 
"  what  on  earth  does  this  mean?  I  will  take  my  oath  that  the  telegram 
said  to-morrow." 

"  Yes,"  but  here  she  laughed  merrily,  "  that  was  Mr.  Geoffrey's  mis- 
take. He  put  the  wrong  date,  and  so,  of  course,  no  one  expected  us. 
Poor  Mrs.  Chudleigh  was  ready  to  cry  about  it  when  Mrs.  Fen  wick  told 
her  that  you  had  not  arrived.  She  was  quite  pale  with  the  disappoint- 
ment. ' ' 

"  And  you  are  all  here?" 

"  Oh,  yes;  all  but  Fred.  Mr.  Bernard  met  us  at  the  station.  They 
are  all  so  cross  with  Mr.  Geoff rey  for  making  that  mistake:  but  now 
you  must  come  and  see  them.  They  are  all  in  the  morning- room. 
Fen  wick  has  just  brought  in  tea.  Oh,  how  delighted  they  will  be!" 

"Wait  a  moment,  please,"  returned  Launeelot,  in  rather  a  rueful 
voice;  and  then  he  looked  at  Dossie  and  laughed,  as  he  thought  of  their 
ridiculous  position.  And  Miss  Rossiter  laughed  too,  in  a  pleasant  sort 
of  way,  as  though  she  were  somehow  amused. 

She  was  an  exceedingly  handsome  young  woman.  Indeed,  most  peo 
pie  called  her  beautiful,  in  spite  of  the  marked  irregularities  that  de- 
tracted from  any  perfection  of  feature;  but  then  very  few  cared  to  criti- 
cise so  charming  a  face.  She  had  very  dark  Irish-gray  eyes— eyes  that 
could  be  very  subtle  and  mischievous  and  tender— and  a  wonderfully 


72  ONLY   TJIK   <;u\  M-I;  NESS. 

transparent  complexion  with  quick  varying  color,  and  lier  head,  that 
was  very  tinelv  shaped,  was  covered  with  thick  coils  of  reddish-brown 
hair, 

She  was  very  tall,  and  her  ligure  was  somewhat  full;  but  she  moved 
very  quickly  and  gracefully,  so  that  it  was  a  pleasure  to  watch  her. 
Indeed,  she  seemed  full  of  life  and  energy  and  buoyant  health.  Her 
voice  wa^  clear  and  sweet,  and  there  was  something  in  her  laugh  that 
reminded  one  of  a  child— a  certain  abandon  and  enjoyment  that  one 
rarely  sees  in  a  growu-up  person. 

It  was  hardly  a  matter  for  surprise  then  that  Launcelot,  in  spite  of 
his  perplexity,  should  look  at  her  with  some  interest  and  a  great  deal  of 
attention.  His  artistic  taste  commended  the  dark-gray  dress  and  the 
bunch  of  yellow  daffodils  she  held  in  her  hands. 

"  Mi-s  Roftsiter,  you  have  come  upon  me  like  a  whirlwind;  I  don't 

think  I  was  ever  so  surprised  in  my  life.     I  have  not  even  shaken 

hands,  and  yet  we  have  not  met  for  rive  months.     I  need  not  ask  how 

you  are,  you  look  first-rate,  and — "  but  she  interrupted  him  with  just  a 

of  impatience  in  her  manner. 

"  Oh,  we  know  Mr.  Chudleigh  never  pays  compliments.  Yes,  I  am 
•well,  always  well;  I  am  absurdly  strong,  you  know.  Please  tell  me 
who  this  little  girl  is?  for  do  you  know  it  is  rather  cold  here  on  the  ter- 
lace,  and  I  have  not  even  my  hat." 

"  Of  course  you  will  take  cold,  and  after  Mentone  too;  is  that  the 
•way  you  play  with  your  health,  Miss  Rossiter?  Now  please  listen  to 
tne;  I  will  not  keep  you  a  moment,  you  must  go  back  to  the  house  and 
not  tell  any  one  you  have  seen  me;  and  when  I  have  taken  Dossie home, 
i  will  come  back." 

"  Dossie!"  returned  Miss  Rossiter,  utterly  bewildered  by  Launcelot's 
mysterious  manner.     "  Is  she  a  little  friend  of  yours,  or  a  prote. 
she  added,  after  a  quick  glance  at  the  child's  shabby  dress.     "  Poor 
little  thing,  she  looks  very  tired;  why  do  you  not  bring  her  in,  and  give 
her  some  Tea?'' 

"  No,  I  must  speak  to  Madella  first.  I  can  not  introduce  her  in  this 
nbrupt  fashion.  Miss  Rossiter,  it  is  too  long  a  tale  to  tell  now,  and 
Dossie  is  tired.  I  want  no  one.  to  see  the  child,  and  so  we  will  make 
our  escape  this  way;  please  say  nothing  about  us — "  but  here  Launce- 
lot broke  off  and  said,  "  By  Jove,"  again  under  his  breath.  "  Mi<s 
Rossiter,  can  not  your  woman's  wit  help  us?  There  is  that  confounded 
fellow  Geoffrey  actually  smoking  his  cigar  outside,  on  the  common. 
"We  are  in  a  regular  trap.  What  on  earth  can  I  do  with  Do- 

"  I  will  take  her  up  to  the  school-room;  no  one  will  notice  us.  and 
you  can  just  walk  into  the  morning-room.     Yes,  that  will  be  bcsi ;  I 
will  give  her  some  tea,  and  no  one  will  see  her  or  ask  questions;  and 
then  when  it  is  dark  I  will  bring  her  into  the  garden:  it  will  be  a- 
as  a  game  of  hide-and-seek,  will  it  not,  Dossie V"  and  Mi 
laughed  in  such  an  infectious  way  that  Launcelot  joined  her. 

"  Oh.  it  is  too  ridiculous  altogether;  never  mind,  Dos>-ie.  we  imM  do 
as  this  lady  bids  us.  (Jo  in  with  her  and  have  some-  tea.  and  I  will  fetch 
you  by  and  by;"  and,  though  Dossie  could  not  comprehend  Hie  situa- 
tion in  the  least,  she  was  not  at  all  reluctant  logo  with  Mi 
whose  face  and  voice  had  taken  her  childish  fancy;  so  she  squee/cd  the 
puppy  in  her  arms,  and  allowed  herself  t<>  be  led  away  into  the  shrub- 

A  nario-.v  path  Jed  them  into  the  roscry;  and  out  of  this  they  turned 
Mi'-o  a  wide  gravel  walk,  which  in  summer  must  be  very  pleasant  and 


ONLY    THfc    GOVERNESS.  73 

shady;  but  now  no  leafy  screen  interposed  between  them  and  the  long 
white  house,  only  the  great  trees  stretched  out  their  bare  branches  in 
the  spring  sunshine.  In  front  of  them  lay  what  Dossie  afterward  de- 
scribed as  a  beautiful  park,  but  which  in  reality  was  a  very  extensive 
lawn,  adorned  with  grand  old  cedars,  and  weeping  elms,  and  groups  of 
ornamental  shrubs,  between  which  they  glided,  Miss  Rossiter  holding 
the  child's  hand  in  a  firm,  cool  grasp. 

"  We  must  go  round  by  the  front,"  she  whispered,  "  no  one  will  see 
us;"  and  opening  the  little  iron  gate,  they  passed  through  a  wide  court- 
yard, and  then  through  a  glass  porch  fitted  up  with  plants  in  bloom  like 
a  greenhouse,  and  then  into  a  large  square  hall,  that  looked  like  a  room, 
only  some  packing-cases  lay  on  the  tessellated  pavement,  and  wraps}  and 
rugs  littered  the  oak  settles  and  tables. 

"  Don't  breathe,  Dossie,"  whispered  Miss  Rossiter  in  her  ear,  and 
then  they  went  up  a  dark  handsome  staircase,  and  down  a  long  passage, 
until  Miss  Rossiter  opened  a  door,  and  said,  "  Here  we  are;  this  is  the 
school-room  and  we  are  safe.  Now  sit  down,  my  dear,  and  take  off 
your  bonnet,  and  I  will  tell  Jane  to  get  us  some  tea,"  and  so  saying,  she 
pushed  Dossie  gently  into  an  easy-chair,  and  left  the  room. 

Dossie  looked  round  with  admiring  eyes.  How  very,  very  rich  Mr. 
Lance  must  be  to  have  such  a  beautiful  house,  she  thought.  School- 
rooms were  always  ugly,  but  this  looked  like  a  drawing-room.  There 
were  so  many  pretty  things  about,  pictures  and  china  and  handsome 
book-cases;  there  was  a  couch,  too,  and  delightfully  easy  chairs;  and 
ilowers  on  the  table;  a  great  bowl  of  scarlet  anemones,  and  a  china 
basket  full  of  daffodils.  There  was  a  photograph  of  a  child  in  a  velvet 
frame  standing  on  the  writing-table,  a  pretty  little  dark-eyed  girl,  with 
loosely  flowing  hair,  whom  Dossie  afterward  heard  was  Sybil. 

Dossie  was  quite  contented-to  sit  still  and  look  about  her;  she  was 
still  far  from  strong,  and  her  legs  ached  with  fatigue,  and  the  appear- 
ance of  a  neat  house-maid  with  the  tea-tray  was  a  very  welcome  sight. 
Miss  Itossiter  followed  her. 

"  This  little  girl,  a  friend  of  mine,  is  very  tired  and  hungry,  Jane," 
she  said;  "  I  have  brought  her  in  fora  rest,"  and  Jane  looked  pleasantly 
at  Dossie  as  she  put  the  buttered  cake  within  her  reach. 

"  Now,  my  dear,"  observed  Miss  Rossiter  as  soon  as  they  were  left 
alone,  and  looking  at  Dossie  in  an  amused  way,  "  perhaps  you  will 
kindly  tell  me  your  name:  Dossie,  that  is  how  Mr.  Chudleigh  addressed 
you,  but  Dos§ie  is  hardly  your  real  name?" 

"  Oh,  no:  my  name  is  Dorothea  Penelope  Weston,"  replied  Dossie, 
with  dignity,  "  only  father  says  that  when  I  was  a  little  thing  I  always 
called  myself  Dossie,  so  he  and  mother  got  into  the  way,  too;  mother's 
name  was  Penelope;  she  was  very  pretty." 

"  Indeed?"  and  here  Miss  Rossiter  tried  not  to  laugh.  Weston!  she 
had  never  heard  the  name;  it  must  be  one  of  Mr.  Chudleigh's  numerous 
protegees;  most  likely  she  was  poor— she  was  very  shabbily  dressed. 
He  probably  intended  his  step-mother  to  befriend  her. 

"  Have  you  known 'Mr.  Chudleigh  long,  my  dear?" 

"  Oh,  no;  I  never  saw  him  at  all  until  three  weeks  ago.  I  never 
knew  there  was  such  a  person  as  Mr.  Lance  at  all,  but  father  knew  him. 
They  had  lived  together  when  they  were  boys,  and  father  is  so  fond  of 
him." 

"  Do  you  live  in  Overtoil,  Dossie?" 

"  Oh,  no,  we  never  lived  anywhere;  that  is,  we  never  stayed  long  in 
any  place  Father  is  an  artist  and  paints  beautiful  pictures,  but— 


74  ONLY    T.  i : i:\ESS. 

but — "  a  shadow  crossing  her  face—"  Mr.  Lance  lias  sent  him  awaj'  to 
the  other  end  of  the  world,  and  now — "  But  here  Dossie  broke  into  a 
sob  and  could  say  no  more. 

"Poor  little  dear  "—kissing  her — "never  mind,  we  will  not  talk 

about  it  any  more.     Look,  this  is  Sybil's  portrait;  it  was  taken  two 

ra  her  hair  in  a  plait  now.     Is  she  not  a  pretty  lit- 

her  like  a  gypsy?"    But  as  she  chattered  on,  showing  Dos- 

i-r  another,  she  told  herself  that  she  had  better  put  no 

more  :o  the  child.     There  was  evidently  some  mystery  about 

Mid,  and  it  was  not  her  ail'air  to  find  it  out.     It  was  rather  hard  to 

repress  her  curiosity  when  Dossie,  in  the  course  of  her  conversation, 

asked,  molly,  "  where  she  would  sleep  when  she  came  to  live  at  the 

Witcl 

"  Live  here!  what  do  you  mean?"  asked  the  governess,  thrown  off 
her  guard  by  this  artless  speech. 

"  .Mr.  Lance  is  going  to  tako  care  of  me  until  father  comes  back,"  re- 
turned Dossie,  quietly.  "  I  am  to  learn  things  with  Sybil.  Mr.  Lance 
told  father  that  you  would  be  very  kind  to  me.  I  am  glad  I  like  you," 
went  on  Dossie,  fixing  her  eyes  seriously  on  Miss  Rossiter's  fa<  < 
would  be  so  dreadful  to  live  here  and  not  like  people,"  but  in  a  tone  of 
conviction,  "  I  can't  help  liking  you  because  you  are  so  nice  and 
pretty."  And  Miss  Rossiter  was  so  charmed  with  this  outspoken  com- 
pliment that  she  kissed  Dossie  again,  and  they  were  now  chattering 
together  like  old  friends. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

MADELLA. 
My  noble  goasips,  ye  have  been  too  prodigal.— SHAKESPEARE. 

The  hand  that  hath  made  you  fair  hath  made  you  good;  the  goodness  that  it 
*heap  in  beauty,  makes  beauty  brief  in  goodness;  but  grace  being  the  soul  of  your 
complexion,  should  keep  the  body  of  it  ever  fair. — SHAKESPEARE. 

MKANWIIILK  Lnuncclot  had  crossed  the  lawn  boldly,  and  turning 
round  the  corner  of  the  house  walked  up  to  an  old-fashioned  bay-win- 
dow, and  raising  the  sash,  coolly  walked  in. 

"  Launcelot,  why,  Lance,  dear  old  Lance!  Cleverly  done,  old  fel- 
low! My  darling  boy,  how  you  startled  me!  Oh,  Lancy,  you  duck.1" 
Such  were  the  greetings  that 'met  his  ear;  but  without  a  word  in  reply 
Launcelot  walked  straight  to  a  lady  who  had  just  set  down  her  tea  cup 
and  was  rising  from  her  chair,  and  put  his  arms  round  her  still  without 
id,  but  the  gladness  in  his  eyes  was  sufficient  speech. 

"  My  own  boy,  how  I  have  wanted  you!"  said  this  lady  with  more 

than  one  motherly  kiss,  and  she  put  back  his  hair  with  a  hand  that  was 

sparkling  with  rings,  and  looked  in  his  face  as  mothers  only  can  look. 

And  no  one  who  saw  them  would  have  guessed  that  this  was  a  meelinir 

mother  and  her  step-son. 

"  Madulla,"  he  said,  quietly,  and  in  a  tone  of  honest  convictpon.  "  1 
think  you  have  grown  more  lovely  than  ever,  'and  Mrs.  C'Kudlri'j  n 

"  Your  d   IJirrnard  are  waiting  to  speak  to  you, "sin 

pushing  him  gently  away.      "  You  miisl.  tell    liee  she  is  looking  charm 
:lous  of  the  old  mother." 

le  liis  rounds;  but  when  lie  had  lin- 
!.:       U  (>  mother  to 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  75 

him  a  cup  of  tea.  "  For  no  one  makes  tea  like  you,"  he  continued, 
pathetically,  "  and  I  shall  not  feel  that  I  have  you  really  at  home  again 
Until  you  pour  me  out  a  cup  of  tea  with  your  own  hands." 

"Always  a  flatterer,  Lance,"  she  returned,  smiling;  but  her  smile 
was  very  sweet. 

The  world  had  long  indorsed  Launcelot's  opinion  that  Mrs.  Clmdleigh 
was  a  lovely  woman,  and  that  not  even  her  handsome  young  daughter 
Beatrix  could  ever  hope  to  emulate  her  mother's  beauty.  When  young, 
more  than  one  artist  had  asked  to  paint  her,  and  under  one  picture  had 
been  written,  but  it  was  the  work  of  a  rejected  suitor,  "  A  daughter  of 
the  gods,  divinely  tall,  and  most  divinely  fair,"  but  those  were  the  duts 
when  Delia  Weston  had  more  lovers  than  dresses,  and  married  to  get 
rid  of  them  all,  as  she  once  told  Launcelot. 

She  was  a  dark-huiivJ,  sweet  looking  girl  then,  and  now  her  hair  was 
silvery  white;  but  she  was  sweet-looking  still.  Her  face  was  still  won- 
derfully young  for  her  age,  and  a  delicate  bloom  still  lingered  on  it;  and 
in  spite  of  her  forty-eight  years,  her  color  varied  like  a  girl's.  It  was 
this  soft  brilliancy  of  complexion,  set  off  by  the  silvery  hair,  that  made 
her  so  striking  in  appearance.  Those  who  knew  and  loved  her  always 
said  Mrs.  Chudleigh  was  a  girl  in  heart  still;  she  was  as  innocent  now, 
when  she  was  surrounded  by  her  grown-up  children,  as  though  she 
were  in  her  teens.  Length  of  years  and  many  troubles  had  not  taught 
her  knowledge  of  the  world.  She  believed  vaguely  and  sorrowfully  in 
evil  and  sin.  Of  course  there  were  wicked  people,  people  who  did 
wrong,  the  criminal  classes  and  others,  but — but — she  never  cared  to 
enter  on  the  subject;  with  so  much  goodness  in  the  world,  it  was  fool- 
ish and  morbid  to  dwell  on  the  darker  shades  of  life. 

Her  husband  hud  adored  this  innocence;  he  had  never  expected  to 
meet  anything  so  fresh  and  uncorrupted  out  of  Eden,  as  he  said,  and 
he  had  been  her  lover  until  the  day  of  his  death. 

This  innate  purity  had  been  her  safeguard  through  her  widowhood. 
No  one  ventured  to  repeat  a  scandalous  story  in  her  hearing.  Any  tale 
of  sin  had  been  always  hushed  in  her  presence.  "  Mrs.  Chudleigh  never 
likes  to  hear  these  things;  it  makes  her  ill,  and  she  only  frets  about  it 
afterward,"  people  often  said,  and  more  lhan  one  strong-minded  woman, 
who  thought  it  her  duty  to  renovate  society  and  was  prepared  to  wade 
through  the  mire  that  she  might  benefit  her  fellow-creatures,  had  been 
heard  to  express  her  opinion  that  an  old  childhood  was  hardly  a  becom- 
ing age,  and  that  there  was  something  narrow  and  self-indulgent  in  a 
nature  like  Mrs.  Chudleigh's;  "a  woman  with  grown-up  sons  and 
daughters,"  added  one  irascible  spinster,  who  had  been  much  enraged 
by  Mrs.  Chudleigh's  unconscious  dignity. 

"  I  don't  call  it  proper,  my  dear,  for  unmarried  women  to  go  poking 
about  public-houses  and  those  low  places,"  she  remarked,  placidly. 
"  Clergymen  have  to  do  that  sort  of  thing,  but  then  they  are  men,  and 
men  know  everything,  as  dear  Gilbert  used  to  say,  but  women  are  best 
at  home,  and,  I  must  say,  Miss  Benson  has  shocked  me  dreadfully.  I 
am  sorry  if  I  seemed  rude,  but  I  did  not  like  her  style  of  conversation 
/it  all,  and  as  to  reading  that  tract,  of  course  I  burned'it,  for  fear  Launce- 
iot  or  the  boys  should  see  it." 

"Madella,"  observed  her  step-son  once,  when  he  noticed  how  calm 
she  enforced  silence  when  some  undesirable  subject  came  on  the  t(ipi*t 
"  I  am  afraid  you  are  not  a  woman  of  enlightened  intelligence  and  en- 
larged views.  You  are  always  obstructing  free  argument— hindering 
conversation,  in  fact." 


76  ONI..      TlIK     liUYKKXESS. 

"  I  can't  help  it,  Lance.  I  think  it  was  wrong  of  Doctor  Elliott  to 
mention  such  a  fact  before  Pauline." 

"  Pauline  is   far  wiser  than  her  mother,"  returned  Launcelot,  in  a 

teasing  voiee.     "She  scorns  to  1x3  behind  her  age.      Xo\v,  don't  shake* 

your  head.     I  know  you  have  no  interest  in  your  neighbors'  rubbish- 

:  you  object  to  be  told  why  people  don't  care  to  call  on  him;  bul 

all  the  sumo,  Doctor  Elliott  will  think  you  a  narrow-minded  woman." 

"  It  does  not  in  the  least  matter  to  me  what  Doctor  Elliott  thii 
returned  Mrs.  Chudleigh,  a  little  petulantly. 

"  Madella,"  was  the  mournful  answer,  "  how  could  your  consc: 
allow  you  to  tell  such  a  lib,  and  to  me  of  all  persons?  Have  you  But 
been  adored  by  mankind  ever  since  your  childhood,  and  would  you  not 
be  miserable  if  people  ceased  to  adore  you?  AVliy,  the  good  opinion  of 
the  gardener's  boy  is  necessary  to  your  perfect  content:  you  would 
worry  yourself  if  even  Jemmy  Stokes  found  fault  with  you,  and  yet  the 
opinion  of  the  vice-chancellor  of  Magdalene  is  nothing  to  you." 

"  Launcelot,  how  can  you  be  so  "tiresome?  You  ought  to  have  told 
Doctor  Elliott  to  defer  the  discussion  until  you  were  in  the  studio." 

"  Nonsense! — and  you  call  yourself  the  mother  of  a  family.  To  think 
of  a  woman  of  your  age  looking  at  the  world  like  a  nun  through  her 
grating.  Do  you  know,  except  for  my  father  and  myself,  I  expect  you 
would  have  got  yourself  and  the  girls  into  many  a  scrape.  It  does  not 
do  to  go  through  the  world  like  a  horse  with  blinkers,  who  onl\ 
straight  before  him.  It  does  not  pay,  Madella;  you  will  find  this  out 
for  yourself  one  day." 

"  Perhaps  you  may  be  right,  dear,"  she  answered,  gently.     "  I  have 
often  been  afraid  of  doing  rash,  impulsive  things,"  and  here  she  looked 
a  little  uncomfortable,  for  she  remembered  that  her  step-son  had  re- 
proved her  rather  sharply  for  her  selection  of  Miss  Rossi ter  for  a 
erness,  though  he  had  said  less  about  it  lately.    "  I  never  feel  quii< 
unless  you  are  with  me;  but  Lance,"  with  a  simplicity  that  touched 
him,  "  1  always  pray  that  I  may  be  guided  right;  so  I  can  not  go  far 
wrong." 

"  No,"  he  said,  looking  at  her  kindly;  "  no  one  but  a  villain  won!  I 
take  advantage  of  you,  and  I  am  no  pessimist  to  believe  that  the  world 
abounds  in  ready-made  villains;  but  don't  you  sometimes  wish  that  you 
could  fashion  a  little  world  of  your  own,  where  there  would  be  no  pov- 
erty, and  no  misery,  and  no  crime,  no  ill-used  animals,  no  degraded 
children?" 

"  Why,  that  would  be  heaven,  Lance,"  she  returned,  with  a  sigh. 
"  My  dear,  I  am  not  so  unreasonable  as  that:  as  long  as  the  world  lasts 
there  must  be  sin  and  pain." 

"  Yes,"  retorted  Launcelot,  somewhat  dryly,  "and  so  long  as  she 
lives  will  Madella  dwell  in  her  own  house,  and  pull  down  her  blinds, 
and  stop  her  oars  with  soft  cotton- wool,  that  she  may  not  hear  the.  L 
of  human  victims,  or  see  how  cruelty  still  stalks  abroad.  '  Oh,  my 
soul,  come  thou  not  near  their  habitations!'  "  and  when  he  had  said 
this,  he  turned  on  his  heel  and  went  out. 

Launcelot  received  his  cup  of  tea,  he  threw  himself  down  in  an 
•  hair,  and  looked  round  his  family  circle  with  intense  pride  and 

deli, 

It  was  certainly  a  charming  scene.  Outside  the  spring  sunshine  wa» 
lyint:  on  the  M/ft  velvety  turf;  a  bright  lire  burned  on  the  hearth. 
Sybil,  who  was  chilly,  was  lying  on  the  black  bearskin  rug,  in  company 
with  a  large  tawny  ISt.  Bernard  dog,  Luuncelut's  .special  property. 


OffLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  77 

Sybil  was  a  pretty,  dark-eyed  child  of  twelve,  with  a  bright,  piquant 
face.  Beatrix,  or  Bee  as  she  was  generally  called,  was  in  a  low  chair, 
drawn  close  to  the  fire.  She  was  a  tall,  slight  girl,  as  her  mother  had 
been  at  her  age,  and  was  decidedly  pretty.  Her  face  was  a  fine  oval, 
she  had  regular  features,  a  complexion  that  was  very  soft  and  brilliant, 
and  hair  that  looked  the  color  of  a  chestnut  ripened  by  the  sun. 

Pauline,  who  was  two  years  younger  than  her  sister,  had  a  bright 
sensible  face,  without  any  special  claim  to  good  looks;  her  hair  was 
reddish  in  tint,  and  her  complexion  somewhat;  pale,  though  she  was 
perfectly  strong  and  healthy.  She  had  soft  brown  eyes  that  could  be 
very  expressive,  and  people  who  knew  both  girls  often  preferred  Pauline 
because  they  said  she  had  no  nonsense  about  her,  and  did  not  give  her- 
self airs  like  Bee,  but  then  Bee  was  a  trifle  spoiled. 

Geoffrey  was  still  smoking  his  cigar  on  the  common,  but  Bernard, 
who  came  next  to  him  in  age,  was  stretching  himself  lazily  on  a  corner 
of  the  couch;  he  was  a  handsome  young  fellow  of  two-and-twenty,  very 
frank  and  good-tempered-looking,  but  without  Geoffrey's  cleverness. 
He  had  the  correct  Oxford  cut  about  him,  and  was  evidently  somewhat 
of  a  dandy;  he  was  almost  as  dark  as  Sybil,  and  being  a  boating  man 
his  brown  skin  was  tanned  by  exposure  to  the  loug-protraated  east 
winds. 

He  had  been  the  last  to  greet  Launcelot,  and  had  appeared  slightly 
confused  at  his  brother's  abrupt  entrance,  but  the  hearty  grasp  of  his 
hand,  and  "  How  are  you,  Bear,  old  fellow?"  had  set  him  at  his  ease. 

"  We  only  want  Geoff  and  Freckles  to  be  complete,"  observed 
Launcelot,  presently.  "  Well,  Bee,  you  have  got  to  the  end  of  your 


such  a  good  time — it  was  delicious.  I  never  enjoyed  myself  so  much  in 
nrv  life;  even  Pauline  was  reconciled  to  it  after  the  first  fortnight." 

"  Yes,  but  I  am  thankful  to  be  home  again,"  returned  Pauline, 
quickly— both  the  girls  spoke  alike,  in  a  quick  decided  way;  "  I  should 
have  been  very  dull  at  first  if  it  had  not  been  for  Miss  Rossiter.  I  can't 
make  friends  all  of  a  sudden,  as  Bee  does.  I  like  to  take  my  time  and 
be  sure  I  like  people,  and  then  there  is  no  fear  of  dropping  them  after- 
ward. Bee  never  minds  dropping  people  she  used  to  know." 

"  Are  you  and  Miss  Rossiter  chums  still,  Paul?"  inquired  Launcelot, 
with  some  interest. 

'"As  though  you  need  ask,"  returned  Bee,  with  a  little  scornful  curl 
of  her  lip.  "  They  have  been  inseparable  this  winter.  Actually  Paul- 
ine used  to  refuse  the  donkey  expeditions  unless  Miss  Rossiter  went  too; 
people  used  to  think  Miss  Rossiter  was  our  sister." 

"  She  was  very  much  admired,"  put  in  her  mother. 

"  Yes,"  returned  Pauline,  mischievously,  for  she  was  not  above  teas- 
ing her  sister,  "  she  and  Bee  were  rival  beauties.  I  am  afraid  Bee  has 
not  quite  got  over  Colonel  Dacre's  remark  that  "Miss  Chudleigh  was 
pretty  and  piquant,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  but  for  a  fine  woman 
.give  him  Miss  Rossiter — she  was  doosidly  handsome,  and  no  mistake.'  ' 

"  My  dear  Pauline,"  remonstrated  her  mother,  in  an  alarmed  voice, 
and  Launcelot  and  Bernard  burst  out  laughing. 

"  Well,  mother,  Colonel  Dacre  said  it,  and  I  am  only  quoting." 

"  But  there  is  no  need  to  quote  slang,  Pauline." 

"  Xo,  it  was  a  strong  expression,"  returned  the  girl,  calmly,  "  and  of 
Course  he  ought  not  to  have  used  it.  I  never  thought  much  of  Colonel 


78  OK  i  i:ss. 

-If.     Mis<  --iiil  she  was  sure  he  was  padded — any- 

ledyed  his  mustache. "  ami  Bernard  roared  again. 

•i,  Paul;  this  is  rattling  good  spurt,  isn't  it.  Lance?" 
"  ]V>ift   be   absurd,"   returned    Deo,    with   decided   acrimony;    "of 
course  Pauline  is  only  trying  to  tease  me  lieeause  I  said  she  and  Miss 
.•r  were  inseparable,  but  even  Nora  Ilamblyn  said  it  was  rather  a 
mistake  taking  her  about  with  us  everywhere." 

Launeelot's  manner  became  attentive  all  at  once.     "I  hope  Sybil's 

3  did  not  suffer V"  he  said,  quickly. 

"  Xo,  my  dear,  no,"  returned  his  step-mother,  placidly,  "  they  were 
all  very  industrious  in  the  morning.  Pauline  worked  at  her  Italian.  I 
got  her  a  master  as  you  advised,  but  of  course  they  were  free  in  the 
afternoon;  eve*  Sybil  joined  in  the  donkey  excursions,  you  know,  and 
irse  Lady  Hamblyn  or  I  acted  as  chaperon.  Dee  had  so  many 
friends,  and  I  wished  Pauline  to  enjoy  herself,  and  as  Miss  Kossiter  was 

too— well,  they  were  all  as  merry  as  crickets." 
Launcelot  received  this  speech  a  little  gravely;  a  close  observer  would 

aid  lie,  was  not  quite  pleased. 

"  And  who  are  the  Hamblyus?"  he  asked,  and  Bee  took  upon  herself 
to  answer. 

"  Oh,  they  are  such  nice  people,  Lance.  Lady  Hamblyn  is  a  widow; 
her  husband  was  Baron  Hamblyn;  he  had  softening  of  the  brain. 
Geoffrey  knew  about  him;  they  are  still  in  deep  mourning  for  him. 
Mr.  Hamblyn,  the  son — Oscar  they  call  him,"  and  here  Bee  changed 
color  for  a  moment,  "  is  a  barrister  too;  he  and  Geoffrey  got  very  in- 
timate, and  Nora  is  such  a  nice-looking  girl — just  your  sort,  Launcelot." 
"Oh!  just  my  sort.  I  have  not  the  faintest  idea  what  that  is  but 
upon  my  word  you  seem  to  know,"  with  a  touch  of  sarcasm  in  his 
voice,  but  he  was  growing  secretly  anxious.  Bee's  little  blush  had  not 
hist  upon  him;  he  had  trusted  them  to  remain  without  him  all 
these  months  very  reluctantly.  He  did  not  believe  Bee  was  the  least 
bit  delicate;  it  was  all  humbug  of  Dr.  Tillotson  saying  a  winter  at  Men- 
tone  would  be  necessary;  she  had  caught  cold,  and  it  had  settled  on  her 
-colds  often  settled  on  girls' chests —but  there  was  nothing  the 
matter  with  her  lungs,  he  would  take  his  oath  of  that — a  healthy  young 
creature  like  Bee! 

But  he  had  been  weak  for  once,  and  had  given  in  to  Madella's  earnest 
solicitations.     The  poor  woman  had  lost  one  child;  Lily,  who  came  be- 
tween  Fred  and  Pauline,  had  died  when  she  was  sixteen,  of  a  chill 
lit  when  overheated  by  dancing;  but  then  Lily  had  been  delicate 
from  her  birth.     But  Made'lla  had  been  in  such  agony  about 

;  tain  that  her  lung  was  affected — and  was  in  such  a  fuss  and  lidgct 

altogether,  that  Launcelot,  who  never  could  refuse  her  anything,  had 

yielded  in  spite  of  his  better  judgment.     He  had  taken  them  over  him- 

nd  had  settled  them  in  the  villa,  and  had  begged  his  step-mother  to 

bil  go  on  regularly  with  her  studies,  and  to  be  careful  what  ac- 

quaii  allowed  for  the  girls;  and  Mrs.  Chudleigh  had  promised 

both  these  things  most  readily. 

But  he  had  little  dreamed  that  his  sisters  and  Miss  Rossiter  would  be 
involved  in  a  round  of  gayeties.     lie  knew  nothing  of  the  social 

it   the  Villa  Campanini,  and  the  small  and   early  evenings  at  the 

Yih;;  ilamblyns,  still  in  their  deep  mourning,  resid- 

.  ical  comment  on  Dee's  remark  only  covered  a  deep  state 

und  a  decided  wish  that  he  and  not  Geoffrey  had  fetched 

had  forgotten  all  about.  Jack  \Veston  and  !><> 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  79 

Bee,  who  was  not  so  clever  as  Pauline,  did  not  detect  the  malice  in 
iirother's  toue. 

"Oh,  Nora  is  very  handsome,"  she  went  on,  tranquilly,  "  a  very 
taking  girl  altogether.  Geoffrey  was  evidently  struck  with  her;  she 
rides  beautifully,  and  she  is  very  clever,  and  so  amusing!" 

"  Query!"  observed  Pauline.  .  and  Launcelot  looked  at  her 

sharply,  and  then  she  pursed  up  her  lips  in  a  droll  way  and  shook  her 
head  a*t  him. 

"  Nora  is  coming  to  stay  with  us  next  month;  I  hope  you  will  not 
mind,  L;iuncelot?  They  have  a  house  at  South  Kensington,  so  we  shall 
he  elose  neighbors.  Of  course  they  are  not  so  well  off  no\v  their  father 
is  dead;  there  are  a  good  many  sons,  and  only  the  eldest  is  out  in  the 
world,  so  they  have  to  be  careful.  Nora  said  they  had  only  a  small 
house,  and  though  the3r  still  kept  the  brougham,  she  had  had  to  give  up 
her  riding-horse  because  of  the  groom.  They  will  do  better,  she  snys, 
when  the  boys  are  settled;  one  is  at  Cambridge  and  one  at  Woolwich, 
and  there  are  two  at  Charterhouse." 

"  Oh,  indeed!"  returned  Launcelot,  in  an  inexplicable  tone  that 
made  Bernard  indulge  in  a  grin;  "  and  so  Miss  Hainblyn  is  coming  to 
the  Witchens?" 

"  If  you  do  not  mind,  Launcelot,"  replied  his  sister,  politely.  "  Of 
course  you  are  master  here." 

"  Yes,  and  Madella  is  mistress,"  taking  her  hand.  "  AVell,  my  lie.ge 
lady,  is  Bee  to  have  her  visitor?" 

"  Well,  we  all  like  Nora,  Launce;  at  least,  I  believe  Pauline  did  not 
much  care  for  her,"  and  here  Pauline  made  one  little  moue  again. 
"  Perhaps  Lady  Hamblyn  is  rather  worldly  for  a  widow,  but  Sir  Charles 
was  much  older  and  a  great  invalid,  so  perhaps — "  and  here  Mrs.  Chud- 
leigh  paused  impressively — "but  we  can  not  be  all  alike— when  your 
dear  father  died,  Lance,  I  went  out  nowhere  for  more  than  two  years, 
and — " 

"  Lady  Hamblyn  has  only  been  a  widow  seven  months,"  burst  in 
Pauline,  indignantly,  "  and  slie  let  the  young  people  dance  at  her  house, 
and  Nora  danced,  and  I  do  think  it  was  hardly  decent." 

"  Yes;  but,  Paul,"  pleaded  her  sister,  eagerly,  "you  must  consider 
circumstances;  you  know,  Geoffrey  told  us  poor  Sir  Charles  had  been 
ill  for  more  than  two  years,  and  they  had  had  all  that  time  to  face  it. 
Nora  said  herself  that  of  course  she  did  not  mean  to  dance  this  season, 
only  that  at  Rome  one  must  do  as  the  Romans  did,  and  it  did  not  mat- 
ter abroad,  so  few  people  knew  them.  Her  mother  thought  it.  selfish  to 
rob  them  of  their  little  pleasures,  and  they  did  not  want  Oscar  to  be 
dull,  and  so — " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  returned  Pauline,  impatiently,  "  Nora  can  be  very  plausi- 
ble when  she  wants  to  bring  you  over  to  her  side,  but  it  always  struck 
me  that  she  wore  her  mourning  more  for  the  Baron  Hamblyn  than  for 
the  father;  there  were  never  any  tears  in  her  voice  when  she  spoke  of 
him,  but  only  when  she  told  us  about  her  bay  mare  being  sold,  she  was 
pathetic  enough  then!" 

"  Ah,  you  are  always  so  severe  on  Nora,"  answered  Bee,  crossly; 
"  you  are  p-ejudicing  Launcelot  against  her,  and  making  him  believe 
she  is  a  frivolous  sort  of  girl,  and  you  know  I  wanted  him  to  like  her — 
it  does  make  such  a  difference  when  Launce  likes  people  who  stay  in  the 
house." 

"  My  dear,"  replied  Launcelot,  in  a  soothing  voice,  "  I  will  promise 
to  be  pleasant  to  your  guest,  onl}-  you  mutt  not  expect  me  to  fall  is. 


80  ONLY    T  KRNESS. 

love  with  her;  T  am  quite  a  reformed  member  of  soeiety  in  that  iv 
aud  look  upon  young  ladies  now  from  quite  a  brotherly  point  of  view. 
I  will  leave  our  fair  visitor  expectant  to  (JeolTrey." 

"  Oh,  hush!''  from  Bee,  in  a  vexed  voice;  "  I  am  quite  sure  Nora 
will  never  have  anything  to  say  to  (JeolTrey,  though  I  must  own — 

"  Who  is  using  my  name?''  asked  thai  individual,  walking  into  the 
room  at  that  moment.  "  Halloo,  Launee;  no  one  told  me  you  had  ar- 
rived; how  do  you  find  yourself,  old  fellow?"  shaking  hands  warmly, 
"  fresh  as  paint,  eh?  Mother,"  turning  to  her  in  a  vexed  sort  ot 
"  who  on  earth  have  you  got  upstairs?  I  was  outside  the  school  -room 
just  now,  aud  I  heard  some  animal  scratching  aud  whining  to  get  out. 
So  I  opened  it,  and  there  was  a  child  curled  up  in  a  big  chair  half  asleep, 
and  a  pug  puppy  rolling  on  the  floor,  and  Miss  Itossiter  held  up  her 
linger  and  begged  me  to  go  away— and — " 

"  Good  heavens,  I  have  forgotten  all  about  Dossie!"  exclaimed 
Launcelot,  in  a  conscience-stricken  voice. 

"  And  who  may  Dossie  be?"  asked  Geoffrey,  in  a  quizzical  voice,  as 
he  noticed  his  brother's  embarrassment,  while  Sybil  jumped  up  from 
the  rug  in  great  excitement. 

"  A  little  girl  and  a  puppy!  oh,  I  must  go  and  see!"  and  she  Avas 
rushing  away  when  Lauucelot  caught  her. 

"  You  must  do  nothing  of  the  kind,  Sybil.  Sit  down  and  hold  your 
tongue  like  a  well-behaved  child.  Madella,  don't  look  so  alarmed',  the 
puppy  won't  bite;  Miss  Rossiter  took  Dossie  upstairs  to  give  her  some 
tea;  she  is  a  little  girl  whom  I  want  you  to  adopt,  Madella  mia,"  iia- 
ished  Launcelot,  with  the  utmost  calmness. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

"l  AM   JACK'S  LITTLE  GIRL." 

I  clung  about  her  neck- 
Young  babes  who  catch  at  every  shred  of  wool 
To  draw  the  uew  light  closer,  catch  and  cling 
Less  blindly.    In  my  ears  my  father's  word 
Hummed  ignorantly.  as  the  sea  in  shells — 
"  Love— love  iny  child!11 

ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING. 

MRS.  CHCDLEIGH'S  exclamation  of  dismay  was  drowned  in  the  gen- 
eral outcry  that  greeted  Launcelot's  announcement.  The  room  seemed 
tilled  with  a  hubbub  of  girlish  voices  -and  laughter.  Bernard  burst  into 
a  tit  of  uncontrollable  merriment  that  seemed  to  annoy  ( Jeoll'rey,  for  he 
bid  him  shut  up  with  his  foolery,  for  liow  on  earth  were  they  to  henr 
:  other  speak? 

"  Of  course  he  is  not  serious,"  continued  the  3roung  barrister,  easting 

an  uneasy  glanee,  however,  at  Launcelot  as  he  spoke.  "  Why,  the  child 

is  a  washed-OUt,  shabby. little  thing! — not  at  all  a  ea<e  for  adoption,      I 

should  say  it  is  only  a  joke,     Launee  could  not  be  so  absurd,"  finished 

"rey,  with  a  cynical  curl  of  his  lip. 

"Couldn't  he!"' returned  Bernard,  delighted  at  the  opportunity  of 
getting  a  rise  out  of  the  wise  Geoffrey.  "  Where  is  your  memory'  old 
man?  Have  you  forgotten  that  miserable  little  atom  of  humanity  that 
I/tnce  found  in  the  gutter,  whom  mother  and  lire  draughted  oil'  prompt- 
ly to  one  of  Dr.  Barnardo's  refuges,  and  the  Italian  "hurdy-gurdy  boy 
•with  the  white  mice,  who  had  to  sleep  in  the  stable  because  he  ' 
flirty — oh,  and  the  poor  man  with  the  bad  le^  —  a  very  interesting  case 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  81 

that — who  made  off  with  a  dozen  silver  spoons  the  next  morning,  It-liv- 
ing us  his  blessing;  and  there  was  the  old  woman,  too,  who  had  a  boo 
in  her  bonnet,  and  thought  she  was  c/t  route  to  the  New  Jerusalem. 
Launcelot  must  needs  lodge  and  board  the  old  party  until  she  thought 
fit  to  shuffle  off  this  mortal  coil;  not  to  mention  Scamp,  whom  the  boys 
were  pelting  to  death  on  the  common,  and — " 

"  Come,  that's  enough,  Bear,"  interrupted  Launcelot,  good-humored- 
ly.  "  I  do  not  want  my  good  deeds  paraded  after  this  fashion." 

But  Geoffrey  again  struck  in: 

"  Oh,  of  course  we  all  know  Launcelot's  hobby;  there  is  always  some 
half-starved  case  on  hand.  But  this  appears  a  different  affair  alto- 
gether. Charity  is  one  thing,  and  adoption  is  another;  that  is  why  I 
say  Laiincc  is  only  joking." 

"  No,  by  heavens!  I  am  serious,"  returned  Launcelot,  who  had  now 
taken  the  plunge  and  felt  quite  comfortable;  indeed,  if  the  truth  must 
be  known,  he  rather  enjoyed  the  whole  scene.  Geoffrey's  disgusted 
face,  the  girls'  mystification,  his  step-mother's  alarm,  were  all  sources 
of  amusement  to  him.  From  sheer  i'un  he  could  not  forbear  teasing 
them  all  a  little.  "  Don't,  shake  your  head,  Geoff;  I  am  perfectly  grave, 
I  assure  you.  The  child  is  the  daughter  of  an  old  friend  of  mine  who 
is  in  rather  shady  circumstances  "  (here  there  was  a  groan  from  Ber- 
nard); "  he  is  obliged  to  go  to  South  Australia  for  some  years,  and  I 
have  promised  him  that  we  will  look  after  Dossie  in  his  absence.  She 
is  a  nice  little  thing,  only  rather  delicate." 

"  Yrs,  but  there  is  no  need  to  have  her  here,"  interrupted  Bee,  in 
rather  a  sharp  voice.  ''  One  child  is  enough  in  the  house.  Of  course 
you  will  send  her  to  school,  Launce;  they  could  board  her  in  the  holi- 
days as  well.  It  will  be  a  great  expense,  but  anything  would  be  better 
than  inflicting  her  on  us,"  with  a  displeased  toss  of  her  head.  But  Bee 
sometimes  gave  herself  airs  with  her  elder  brother. 

"  Well,  you  need  not  go  near  the  school-room  unless  you  like,"  re- 
turned Launcelot,  quietly.  "  I  had  no  idea  you  disliked  children  so 
much,  Bee.  Pauline  is  very  fond  of  them  Of  course  Dossie  will  live 
here.  She  will  do  her  lessons  with  Sybil,  and  Miss  Rossiter  will  look 
after  them  both." 

"  Miss  Rossiter  may  object  to  another  pupil.  I  think  you  ought  to 
consult  her  first,"  observed  Pauline,  rather  anxiously. 

"  My  dear  Paul,  Miss  Rossiter  is  under  orders  as  long  as  she  stays  at 
the  AVitchens,"  replied  Launcelot  in  a  tone  which,  quiet  as  it  was,  be- 
trayed that  he  meant  to  be  master.  "  Of  course  I  shall  speak  to  her, 
but  she  is  far  too  good-natured  to  raise  any  objection.  1  am  sorry  that 
you  are  none  of  you  pleased  with  this  addition  to  our  family  circle,  but 
you  see  it  is  my  affair  and  Madella's  " — with  a  gleam  of  fun  in  his  eyes. 
"  Will  you  come  up  with  me  to  the  school-room  now?"  turning  to  his 
step-mother;  "  I  want  you  to  see  Dossie  alone  first.  She  is  very  miser- 
able, poor  little  thing,  at  parting  from  her  father,  and  you  must  be  very 
kind  to  her,  for  she  has  no  mother." 

Mrs.  Chudleigh  did  not  reply,  but  she  rose  at  once  from  her  seat.  It 
did  not  need  a  second  glance  at  her  face  to  see  how  reluctantly  she 
obeyed  her  step-son,  but  not  for  one  moment  did  she  try  to  resist  his 
will. 

If  Launcelot  had  wished  her  to  adopt  a  dozen  children  she  would  only 
have  remonstrated  very  gently  with  him,  and  then  set  herself  meekly  to 
fulfill  his  behest.  In  spite  of  his  love,  for  her  he  ruled  her  implicitly; 
«rer  since  her  husband's  death  his  will  hud  been  her  law.  She  was  one* 


82  ONLY    TIIK    (iOVEKNESS. 

of  those  women  to  whom  a  state  of  obedience  was  absolutely  necr 
power  was  a  mutter  of  indifference  to  her.  If  people  only  loved  her, 
she  would  be  ready  to  do  anything  in  return  for  them.  L-umcclot  rev- 
erenced, potted,  and  adored  her,  and  she  repaid  him  with  perfect  devo- 
tion to  his  will.  Strange  to  say,  this  dependence  made  her  chief  happi- 
it  even  consoled  her  in  some  measure  for  the  loss  of  her  hi^band. 
She  never  decided  anything  without  reference  to  Launcelot;  only  once 
had  she  differed  from  him  and  got  her  own  way,  and  that  was  in  the 
Mentone  plan.  She  had  triumphed  greatly  at  the  time,  but  all  the  same 
she  had  grown  a  little  weary  of  her  liberty.  More  than  once  during  the 
winter  she  had  suffered  from  an  uneasy  conviction  that  Launcelot  might 
disapprove  of  this  or  that  thing;  but  Bee  had  taken  her  in  hand,  and 
had  acted  as  regent  in  his  stead. 

It  would  only  be  fair  to  say  that  Launcelot  was  no  despot.  If  he 
tyrannized  over  his  step-mother,  it  was  certainly  a  very  wise  and  loving 
tyranny.  He  even  kept  up  the  fiction  of  consulting  her  on  every  mat- 
ter, though  he  took  care  to  inform  her  of  his  decision  beforehand.  When 
the  servants  came  to  him  for  any  unusual  order  he  always  gravely  sent 
them  to  the  mistress  of  the  house.  "  You  can  mention,  Fenwick,  that 
I  think  so  and  so  might  be  done,"  he  would  add,  rather  casually.  "  Oh, 
if  Mr.  Launcelot  said  that,  it  must  be  done,  of  course,  Fcnwick, 
Mrs.  Chudleigh's  invariable  reply.  "  I  would  not  go  against  his  orders 
for  the  world."  And  with  this  remark  she  always  silenced  any  grum- 
bling on  the  part  of  the  young  people:  "  My  dear  Geoffrey,  your  broth- 
er is  so  much  older;  of  course  he  knows  best;"  or,  "I  can't  he!])  it, 
Bee;  Launce  must  have  his  way  in  this.  This  is  his  own  house,  re- 
member, and  he  is  not  bound  to  keep  us  in  it.  Your  father's  will  would 
never  have  allowed  me  means  to  live  as  we  are  living  now.  You  owe 
so  much  to  Launce's  generosity,  my  darling,  that  any  complaint  seems 
ungrateful." 

Launcelot  detained  his  step-mother  for  a  moment  as  they  crossed  the 
hall  together. 

"  Madella,"  he  said,  gently,  "  you  are  behaving  like  an  angel  in  this; 
I  know  you  are  sorry  that  I  want  Dossie  to  live  here,  but  you  won't  hurt 
my  feelings  by  saying  so.  I  call  that  so  good  of  you." 

' '  You  are  master  here,  Launce, ' '  she  replied,  and  there  was  a  trace  of 
sadness  on  her  beautiful  face.  "I  have  no  right  to  question  your 
wishes." 

"  No  right,  Madella?  Who  has  a  better  right,  I  should  like  to  know? 
Xow,  listen  to  me  for  a  moment,  dear.  You  are  so  good  about  thin,  you 
shall  be  the  arbiter  of  Dossie's  fate.  If,  when  you  see  the  child  and  hear 
her  little  story,  you  decide  it  will  be  better  not  to  bring  her  up  with 
Sybil,  you  shall  send  her  to  school  as  Bee  suggests;  it  will  be  in  your 
own  hands,  remember.  Dossie  is  to  be  your  child,  not  mine,  and  I  will 
promise  to  agree  with  your  opinion,"  and  as  Mrs.  ChudlcighV 
cleared  at  this  unexpected  concession  to  her  good  sense,  the  young 
hypocrite  turned  away  for  fear  his  mischievous  eyes  should  betray  him, 
for  did  he  not  know  that  Madella  would  be  the  first  to  plead  with  him 
for  Jack's  child? 

Dossie  was  wide  awake  and  talking  to  Miss  Rossiter  as  they  em 
the  school-room.     "  What  a  long  time  Mr.  Lance  is,"  they  heard  her 
"  I  think  he  must  have  forgotten  to  letch  me." 

"Oh,  j  ,  and  slopped  as  the  door  o; 

"  Oil,  there  he  is,  and  Mrs.'  Chudleigh  too.'' 

ie,  will  you  come  here  a  moment?"  observed  Launcelot,  hold 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  83 

ins:  out  his  hand  to  his  protegee;  but,  to  his  surprise,  she  took  no  notice 
of  him.  She  came  forward  indeed,  but  her  eyes  were  fixed  with  intense 
wist fulness  on  his  companion's  face.  She  twisted  her  hands  nervously, 
i  hough  she  was  not  a  shy  child,  and  her  face  worked  as  though  she  were 
going  to  cry. 

"  Is  this  Aunt  Delia?"  she  asked,  somewhat  awed  by  Mrs.  Chud- 
leigh's  stately  presence;  "  but  of  course  it  must  be.  Aunt  Delia,  1 
have  got  to  say  something  and  I  am  trying  to  remember.  Oh,  I  know," 
and  here  Dossie  shut  her  eyes  tightly.'  "  Please  I  am  Jack's  little  girl, 
and  he  wants  you  to  love  me.  You  were  very  good  to  him  when  he 
was  a  little  boy,  and  he  knows  you  will  be  good  to  me,  and  he  sends  his 
]ove;  and  I  think  that  was  all." 

Mrs.  Chudleigh  became  very  pale;  she  looked  at  her  step-son  help- 
lessly. 

'  What  does  she  mean,  Launce?  Jack?  She  can  not  mean  my  poor 
lost  Jack!"  but  here  Miss  Rossiter  softly  left  the  room. 

"Yes,"  returned  Launcelot,  with  a  reassuring  smile,  "this  is 
Dorothea  Penelope  Weston,  your  own  brother's  child,  your  only  niece. 
Aunt  Delia — yes,  of  course  you  are  Aunt  Delia  to  Dossie;"  and  as  he 
spoke,  Mrs.  Chudleigh  drew  the  child  closer  to  her. 

"  My  darling!  Can  it  be  possible;  Jack's  child?  my  poor  foolish  boy, 
Jack!  and  your  mother  is  dead?  Oh,  don't  cry,  please  don't  cry.  You 
shall  be  my  own  dear  little  girl;"  but  the  tears  were  running  down  Mrs. 
Chudleigh's  face  as  she  lifted  Dossie  on  her  lap:  and  it  was  Dossie  who 
wiped  them  away  with  her  own  coarse  little  handkerchief. 

"  Aunt  Delia,  I  am  sure  I  shall  love  you,"  she  whispered,  Laying  her 
head  on  her  shoulder,  and  Mrs.  Chudleigh  kissed  her  and  cried  over  her 
in  the  most  motherly  way,  while  Launcelot  watched  them  both  with 
infinite  content. 

"  Is  she  to  go  to  school,  or  learn  her  lessons  with  Sybil?"  he  asked, 
presently,  when  Dossie  had  told  her  pitiful  little  story  of  how  father 
had  left' her  and  gone  away  to  the  other  end  of  the  world. 

"  Of  course  I  don't  mean  to  part  with  her!':  returned  Mrs.  Chudleigh, 
indignantly.  "Please  don't  interrupt  the  child,  Launcelot.  Yes, 
darling,  so  he  sat  all  those  hours  in  the  dark  beside  you;  that  was  so 
like  Jack,  he  was  always  so  kind-hearted." 

Launcelot  left  them  for  a  little  while  and  went  in  search  of  Miss  Ros 
eitcr,  to  whom  he  explained  matters  more  fully,  but  when  he  came  back, 
they  were  still  at  it  and  his  step-mother  was  crying  bitterly. 

"  This  is  wrong,"  he  said,  taking  her  hand;  "  you  will  make  yourself 
ill.  Tell  Aunt  Delia  she  must  not  cry  any  more,  Dossie." 

And  Dossie  put  her  thin  little  arms  round  her  aunt's  neck. 

"  Oh,  please  don't;  poor  ftither  would  be  so  sorry,"  she  whispered, 
laying  her  cheek  against  Mrs.  Chudleigh's;  but  Mrs.  Chudleigh  con- 
tinued to  sob  in  a  most  heart-broken  way. 

"  It  is  not  your  fault,  my  darling;  but  if  I  had  only  seen  him  before 
he  went  away — it  is  that  that  frets  me  so.  To  think  that  I  was  away 
when  he  wanted  me,  and  all  these  years  I  have  so  longed  to  see  him. 
Ah,  it  is  too  hard,  Launcelot."  And  he  had  some  trouble  in  consoling 
her,  though  he  managed  to  pacify  her  at  last.  She  would  not  hear  of 
Dossie  leaving  them  that  night,  so  Launcelot  sent  off  a  note  to  Miss 
Thorpe;  then  he  begged  Miss  Kossiter  to  take  the  child  away  for  a  little, 
and  sitting  down  by  his  step-mother  Ire  gave  her  a  full  account  of  his 
meeting  with  Jack  and  all  that  he  could  remember  of  Jack's  married 
life. 


84  OtfLY   Tin:  i:ss. 


"  You  ear.  write  to  him,  poor  fellow,  and  tell  him.  you  have  forgiven 
him  for  all  his  lieu]' 

"Of  course   1  have  forgiven  him.     Is  it  not  until   'seventy  times: 
.'  Launce?  and  my  poor  .lack  never  meant  to  be  unkind.     Oh,  I 

•  glad  his  wife  was  so  good   to  him  —  poor  Penelope,  and  I  never 
even  saw  her.     I  think  Dossie  lias  Jack's^eyes,  but  she  is  not  really  like 
him,"  and  so  she  rambled  on,  now  bemoaning  poor  .lack,  and  now  mak- 
ing  plans   for   Dosvjc's  comfort,  until   Lauucelot  gently  reminded    her 
that  the  dressing-gong  had  long  sounded,  and  that,  so  much  talking  and 
excitement  would  make  her  head  ache,  and  then  she  consented  to  id  in- 
to her  room. 

The  rest  of  the  party  had  long  ago  exhausted  their  grumbling,  anil 
had  separated  to  his  or  her  private  domains,  and  they  had  only  just  re- 
abled  at  the  sound  of  the  gong  when  Mrs.  Chudleigh  entered  the 
room,  looking  rather  tired  and  worn  from  so  much  emotion,  but  with 
a  soft  satisfied  smile  on  her  face,  and  leading  by  the  hand  a  little  pale 
girl  in  a  shabby  brown  frock. 

Geoffrey  only  deigned  one  glance  and  went  on  with  his  paper,  but 
Bernard's  white  teeth  gleamed  under  his  mustache,  while  Bee  looked 
haughtily  at  her  brothers. 

"My  dears,"  said  Mrs.  Chudleigh,  placidly,  "  I  have  a  great  surprise 
for  you;  this  is  your  own  little  cousin  Dorothea.  Some  of  you  elder 
ones  may  remember  your  uncle  Jack;  at  least,  I  think  Geoffrey  once 
saw  him,  but  I  am  not  sure.  Circumstances  have  kept  us  apart  all  these 
years,  but  I  was  alwa}'s  very  fond  of  him.  Dear  Launcelot  has  seen  a 
great  deal  of  him  lately,  and  now  he  has  brought  me  his  little  mother- 
less child  to  keep  for  Jack's  sake,  until  he  comes  home." 

"Oh,  that  makes  a  difference,"  observed  Geoffrey,  coolly,  laying 
down  his  paper.  "  I  did  not  know  she  was  a  relation.  How  do  you 
do,  Dorothea?"  shaking  hands  with  her  stiffly. 

Bee  followed  Geoffrey's  example,  with  a  cold  kiss,  but  Pauline 
far  more  cordial  in  her  greeting. 

"  Of  course  you  are  pleased,  mother.  No,  I  never  remember  hearing 
about  Uncle  Jack,  but  it  was  nice  of  Launce  to  bring  the  child  here. 
Come  and  speak  to  your  cousin,  Sybil:  you  two  children  must  be  great 
friends.  Dossie  —  what  a  funny  little  name;  but  we  must  keep  Dorothea 
until  you  are  grown  out." 

"  This  is  the  big  doll,  I  suppose?"  observed  Sybil,  with  a  contemptu- 
ous glance  at  her  eldest  brother.  "  What  a  stupid  joke!  Geoffrey 
made  me  so  cross  when  he  repeated  it."  But  she  condescended  to  take 
Beppo  in  her  arms,  and  to  question  Dossie  a  little,  after  the  fashion  oi 
a  spoiled  child,  while  Bernard  regarded  them  with  extreme  amusement, 
but  without  leaving  his  favorite  corner. 

"  I  am  a  cousin  too,"  he  observed,  when  opportunity  brought  him  in 
contact  with  the  child. 

1    Yes,  I  know;  3*011  are  Bear."  replied  Dossie,  without  the  lc; 

•  -merit.     "  I  have  made  you  a  pincushion  too—  dark-blue,  Oxford 
color  you  know  —  because  Mr.  Lance  says  you  are  an  Oxford  man." 

"Sharp  child  that,"  observed  iJernard,  .W/V>  wee;  but,  he,  continued 
with  much  gravity:  "You  must  call  him  Cousin  Launcelot,  not  Air. 
Lance." 

0,  he  is  not  my  own  cousin,  father  told  me  so;  lie  is  only  Mr. 
Lance.  (;<-i,  iTn-v  is  my  cousin,  and  you  aiul  Fred  too.  Oh,  1  know  all 
about  it,"  finished  Dossie  with  rut  her  an  important,  air,  feeling  h< 

nly  enrieliK'd  by  so  many  relations.     She  looked  round  benignant- 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  85 

ly  at  them  as  they  laughed.  Yes,  they  were  all  very  nice,  but  she 
thought  she  liked  Pauline  and  Bernard  best. 

"  Come  and  sit  by  me,  darling,"  observed  Mrs.  Chudleigh,  in  her 
soft,  motherly  voice.  "  Don't  laugh  at  the  poor  child,  Geoffrey;  she 
must  feel  very  strange  among  you  all."  But  she  was  wrong.  Dossie 
was  happier  than  she  had  been  yet.  She  was  in  her  dear  Mr.  Lance's 
home,  and  this  kind,  lovely  lady  was  her  aunt  Delia,  and  the  pretty 
gills  in  the  white  gowns  were  her  cousins;  and  there  were  Geoffrey  and 
Bernard,  for  whom  she  had  made  the  pincushions,  and  that  nice, 
friendly  Miss  Rossiter.  What  a  lot  of  nice  people!  Oh,  if  only  her  fa- 
ther could  be  there  too!  and  Dossie's  blue  eyes  grew  sad  and  wistful 
again.  It  was  Miss  Rossiter  who  noticed  the  child's  drooping  looks, 
and  who  good-naturedly  offered  to  withdraw  with  her  and  see  her  com- 
fortably in  bed.  "  Emma  can  do  it  another  night,  but  I  will  attend  to 
my  new  little  pupil  this  evening,"  she  said,  pleasantly,  and  Mrs.  Chud- 
leigh thanked  her  quite  gratefully. 

Just  as  they  were  leaving  the  room  Bernard,  who,  in  spite  of  his 
lymphatic  manner,  never  forgot  a  person's  likes  or  dislikes,  pointed  out 
feelingly  to  Miss  Rossiter  the  box  of  French  bonbons  in  the  center  of 
the  table. 

**  Oh,  Bear,"  retorted  Launcelot,  who  had  noticed  this  little  by-play, 
"  many  good  people  in  this  world  have  to  go  without  their  deserts,"  for 
which  vile  pirn  Sybil  pinched  him. 

Miss  Rossiter  looked  him  full  in  the  face  and  dropped  him  a  mocking 
little  courtesy.  She  looked  very  handsome  to-night  in  her  soft,  silvery 
dress  and  a  dark  crimson  rose  nestling  at  her  white  throat. 

"  I  have  known  bad  people  who  have  escaped  their  deserts  also,"  she 
said,  with  a  droll  smile.  "  Come,  Dossie,  my  child,"  and  they  went 
out  together  hand  in  hand. 

It  was  hardly  surprising  that  people  wondered  that  Mrs.  Chudleigh 
treated  her  young  governess  with  such  injudicious  familiarity.  Very 
few  mothers  with  three  grown-up  sons  would  have  ventured  on  engag- 
ing* such  a  striking-looking  young  woman;  but  such  thoughts  never 
occurred  to  Mrs.  Chudleigh. 

It  was  one  of  her  idiosyncrasies  to  care  rather  too  much  for  the  good 
looks  of  those  who  surrounded  her;  a  plain  face  was  almost  an  eye-sore 
to  her. 

"  I  can  not  help  my  nature,"  she  said  once  to  Launcelot,  who  was 
teasing  her  on  the  subject.  "  I  do  love  pretty  faces  and  things.  I  can 
not  half  like  people  until  I  find  something  to  admire  in  them.  When  I 
see  a  very  unprepossessing  person  I  am  always  obliged  to  find  some  good 
point  in  them  before  I  can  be  satisfied,  There  is  always  something, " 
she  finished,  contentedly,  "  either  a  nice  expression  or  a  pleasant  voice, 
or  a  pretty  figure  or  hand.  Very  few  people  are  unredeemably  ugly, 
thank  Heaven." 

"Amen,"  returned  Launcelot,  piously,  and  then  he  added;  "but 
there  are  lots  of  faces  one  sees  every  day  that  one  never  wishes  to  see 
again;  but  no  doubt  you  are  right — ladie«  always  are." 

As  soon  as  they  were  left  alone  Launcelot  looked  round  the  table  with 
what  Bernard  always  termed  his  "  Bless-you-my-children  "  expression. 

"  Oh,"  he  said,  drawing  a  deep  sigh  of  contentment,  "  what  a  treat 
it  will  be  to  box  Freckles's  ears  to-morrow,"  and  as  they  all  laughod  at 
this,  he  continued  with  much  solemnity,  "  Madella,  you  and  the  girls 
iaust  never  leave  me  so  long  a^ain." 


SO  ONLY    'I  KKNESS. 

"  \Vliy."  asked  Sybil,  with  great  furiosity,  "  ha\ 
chic:  . "— a 'question  that  highly  amused  Bernard. 

"No,   my  dc;,r,  no,"   shaking  his  head;    "but  a  man  without   his 
womankind  is  an  odd  sort  of  animal.      Fancy  Geoff  and  myself  in 
this   big  IIOUM-:  why,  we  could  not  stand  it.     We  used  to  ta! 
mi-lit,  but   ho  always  brat  m:.  so  we  got  tired  of  that.     No,  1>« 
must  try  your  little  games  elsewhere."  I  can't  let  you  all  so  easily  Out 
of  leading-strii. 

"  How  can  you  be  so  foolish?"  she  answered,  rather  pettishly.  "I 
wuld  not  help  being  ill,  could  I,  mother?" 

"  No,  my  darling,  of  cour.se  not.     Launcc  is  only  joking." 

!>ut  there  is  always  something  beneath  his  jokes,"  her  color 
rising.  "  He  thinks  it  is  my  fault  that  we  stopped  so  long  away.  That 
sprain  was  certainly  very  unfortunate,  as  it  detained  us  a  fortnight 

but,  Bee,"  interposed  Pauline,  eagerly,  "  if  it  had  not  been  for 
that  last  fortnight  we  should  never  have  got  to  know  the  Maxwell 
it  not  strange,  Lauucc,"  turning  to  him,  "  actually  some  Ittver- 
people  came  over  from  Montreaux  about  three  weeks  before  we  left? 
They  took  the  Ericsons'  rooms  in  the  next  villa  to  ours,,  and  we  s 
much  of  them.     Doctor  Maxwell  doctored  Bee's  ankle." 

"  Maxwell — do  I  know  the  name?"  returned  Launcelot,  thoughtfully; 
*'  somehow  it  seems  familiar  to  me." 

"  Well,  they  have  only  just  come  to  Riversleigh.  Doctor  Maxwell  is 
Mr.  Malcolmson's  new  partner,  and  they  have  taken  that  old  house  in 
Wootten  Road— Bridge  House.  Charlotte,  that  is,  Miss  Maxwell,  told 
me  all  about  it;  it  does  seem  so  sad." 

"  Come,  Paul,  that  is  rather  vague.  Of  what  does  the  sadness  con- 
sist?" 

"Why,"  she  said,  with  an  apologetic  laugh,  "Doctor  Maxwell  is 
quite  young  and  getting  on  so  nicely  in  his  profession,  and,  as  his  sister 
remarked,  they  thought  he  would  do  so  well,  and  then  their  father  died, 
and  they  found  everything  was  mortgaged.  There  was  nothing  at  all 
for  them  to  live  on,  so  Doctor  Maxwell  took  a  bigger  house,  and  they 
ha\ •<•  settled  at  Riversleigh  with  him,  and  it  does  seem  hard,  as  Charlotte 
said." 

"  Pauline  \vas  hardly  civil  to  the  Hamblyns,  but  she  and  Mi.-s  ! 
ter  were  always  with  Miss  Maxwell,"  observed  Bee,  with  an  an: 
air,  "  though  what  they  could  both  see  in  that  plain,  awkward  girl  is 
more  than  I  can 

"  Yes,    but    Maxwell    is    a    nice,    gentlemanly   fellow,"    inti 
Geoffrey,  in  an  amicable  tone;  "  I  think  Launcc  would  like  him. 
hard  lines,  as  Paul  says,  for  a  man  of  his  age  to  be  saddled  with  a 
family." 

"  Are  there  many  of  them?"  asked  Launcelot,  who  was  listening  wiih 
great  attention.  He  was  evidently  bent  on  extracting  every  po 
particular  relating  to  the  Mentone  friends.  The  girls  had  always 
chatted  frankly  to  him  of  their  doings;  even  Hce,  who  could  be  a  rebel 
at  times,  was  never  quite  happy  unless  Launcelot  approved  of  her  little 
plans. 

lisfy  ]\\<  curiosity. 

.  Maxwell,  who  is  rather  an  invalid,  and 
Aunt  My:  .-all  her,  who  has  always  lived  with 

them:  an<:  -phial  complaint,  and  I' 

the  youngest  one,  ia  dreadfully  delicate.     That  is  why  they  went  to 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  87 

Montreaux,  but  it  has  not  done  her  much  good,  and  Charlotte  says  they 
will  not  be  able  to  afford  it  again." 

Lauucelot  began  counting  on  his  fingers  in  Dundreary  fashion.  "  In- 
valid mother  number  one;  blind  aunt  —  a  staggerer  .that,  as  Dick 
Swiveller  would  say — number  two;  sister  with  spinal  disease,  number 
three;  ditto  with  consumptive  tendency,  number  four.  Geoff  is  right; 
it  i.s  hard  lines,  a  dilapidated  family  like  that." 

"Yes;  but,  Lauuee,  there  are  two  sisters  who  married  and  went  to 
India,  who  were  quite  strong,  and  Charlotte  says  she  and  her  brother 
are  as  tough  as  possible,  and  she  only  regrets  that  she  can  not  help  him 
by  teaching,  only  with  all  those  invalids  s^ie  has  as  much  as  she  can  do. 
I  did  not  care  much  for  the  younger  sister  Prissy,  she  struck  me  as  rather 
exacting  and  selfish,  but  Bee  liked  her  best." 

"  Well;  she  is  a  nice,  well-mannered  sort  of  girl.  I  should  have  been 
fonder  of  her  company  if  she  had  talked  less  of  herself  and  her  ail- 
ments. Geoff  agreed  with  me;  he  called  her  little  Miss  I.  I.,  but  he  did 
not  take  to  Miss  Maxwell." 

"  No;  she  is  too  strong  minded  for  me." 

"  Yes,  and  so  gaMcJte. 

"  Maxwell  is  the  best  of  the  bunch.  What  is  it,  mother?"  for  Mrs. 
Chudleigh  seemed  a  little  restless  and  distracted. 

"  Do  not  let  me  disturb  you,  my  dears.  Of  course  Launcelot  wants 
to  hear  all  about  your  friends,  but  if  you  will  excuse  me  I  should  like  to 
see  if  Dossie  be  comfortable." 

"Ah,  Dame  Partlett  wants  to  be  fussing  over  her  new  child,"  ob 
served  Launcelot,  rising  to  open  the  door.  "  Don't  let  her  talk  any 
more  to-night,  Madella  mia.  Dossie  is  very  excitable." 

"  Oh,  you  may  trust  me.  I  think  I  understand  children,"  returned 
Mrs.  Chudleigh,  with  an  amused  smile.  "  I  only  want  to  see  how  she 
looks  when  she  is  asleep — poor  little  dear!" 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

THE  TERRACE  AT  THE  WITCHENS. 

I'm  young  in  age,  and  younger  still,  I  think, 
As  a  woman. 

ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING. 

As  soon  as  Launcelot  had  closed  the  door  he  came  back  to  his  place, 
and  told  his  brothers  and  sisters  that  he  wanted  to  say  a  word  to  them. 

"  Hear,  hear!"  observed  Bernard,  rapping  on  the  table  to  enforce  at- 
tention. "  Old  Launce  is  going  to  make  us  a  speech." 

"  No,  my  dear  boy,  nothing  of  the  kind.  I  only  want  to  ask  you  as  a 
personal  favor  to  myself,  as  well  as  to  your  mother,  to  be  as  kind  as 
possible  to  poor  little  Dossie  and  to  give  you  an  opportunity  of  asking 
me  any  questions  you  like  about  her;"  for  Launcelot  knew  that  the 
girls  at  least  were  dying  of  curiosity,  which  their  good  feelings  obliged 
them  to  restrain  in  their  mother's  presence. 

Of  course  he  was  overwhelmed  with  questions  about  this  unknown 
Uncle  Jack  in  a  moment,  which  he  answered  to  the  best  of  his  ability. 

"  He  is  a  very  nice  fellow,  and  I  am  sure  you  would  all  like  him," 
he  finished,  "  and  though  he  has  been  down  on  his  luck  all  these  years, 
and  has  made  the  grievous  mistake  of  keeping  aloof  from  his  own 
family,  I  fancy  he  has  turned  the  awkward  corner  now  and  means  to 
be  a  credit  to  us  all," 


ONLY    Tin:    <;«>vi  I;NKSS. 

"  I  wish  Do>*ie  was  a  pretty  child, "  observed  Bee,  with  languid  in- 
\\  hilc  <  Jcoll'rey  muttered  something  about  "  children  being  a  bore 
in  ii  liou-e." 

"  1  think  she  will  be  a  godsend  to  Sybil,"  replied  Launcelot; 
have  all  spoiled   that  little"  monkey  among  you.     Possie  is  a  good  Uttle 
thing,  and  you  will  all  like  her  in  time." 

"  Liiini  ;.ie  always  swans,"  was  Bernard's  impertinent  ob- 

•  ion  after  this. 

"  Come,  that  is  hardly  fair,  Bear.  I  think  I  uin  a  pretty  good  judge 
of  chancier,"  returned'Launcclot,  wlio  was  the  lea>t,  bit  touchy  <m  this 
point;  he  prided  himself  on  a  very  nice  discrimination,  and  though, 
like  other  mortals,  he  was  sometimes  liable  to  error,  hi-  never  lik 

uinded  of  any  past  mistakes;  to  the  end  lie  wished  his  g 
main  swuiis. 

The  discussion  ended  after  this.  Geoffrey  and  Bernard  retired  to  the, 
billiard-room,  and  Bee  went  in  search  of  her  mother,  but  Lamm-lot 
linked  his  arm  in  Pauline's  and  asked  her  to  keep  him  company  for  a 
little,  lie  made  no  outward  distinction  between  his  sisters,  for  he  was 
very  fond  of  them  both,  but  in  reality  Pauline  was  his  favorite.  She 
was  very  sensible  and  matter-of-fact,  and  he  could  rely  on  her  thorough- 
ly. She  was  more  amicable  than  Bee,  who  had  her  little  tempers,  but 
they  wrere  both  bright  happy  young  creatures,  and  he  was  justly  proud 
of  them. 

As  they  sauntered  through  the  hall,  arm  in  arm,  they  came  upon 
Mi<^  Rossiter,  who  was  standing  in  the  glass  entry  looking  out  into  the 
moonlighted  court-yard,  for  the  bare  .sweep  of  gravel  walk  before  the 
house,  closed  in  by  high  walls,  gave  one  the  idea,  of  a  court -yard. 

"  Oh,  there  is  Huldali,"  exclaimed  Pauline,  rather  unguardedly;  and 
as  Lauucelot  looked  a  little  surprised,  she  added  quickly,  "  1  only  call 
her  by  her  Christian  name  when  we  are  alone,  because  Bee  is  so  tire- 
some about  my  liking  her  so  much;  but  I  can  not  help  it,  she  is  a  dear 
girl,  and  I  am  very  fond  of  her." 

"  That  is  right,  stick  up  for  your  friend,  Paul,"  returned  her  brother, 
in  a  low  tone  of  hearty  commendation,  and  then  aloud,  "  What  a  lovely 
night,  Miss  Rossiter;  are  you  studying  astronomy,  or  only  star-gazing? 

-he  turned  with  a  slight  start,  he  saw  she  looked  rather  pale,  and 
he  fancied  there  were  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"  Oh,  do  let  us  go  down  to  the  terrace,"  pleaded  Pauline.  "  Think 
how  beautiful  the  common  will  look;  we  will  wrap  ourselves  up, 
Launce,  so  then;  can  be  no  possible  harm,"  and  as  her  brother  made  no 
i'U'lible  objection,  she  darted  to  the  oak  settle  and  caught  up  .some  fur- 
liix'd  drinks  that  still  lay  there. 

"  You  had  better  go  without  me,"  observed  Miss  Rossiter. 
('hudlei_rli  may  want  me." 

"  tfdpsertee,"  returned  Launcelot,  vigorously  to  this,  and  Mis>  I. 
ter  drew  the  hood  over  her  bright  hair,  the  soft  lining  of  fur  setting  o'r 
her  diarming  face,  and  accompanied  them  without  another  word. 

"  Oh,  how  delicious!"  exclaimed   Pauline,  when  they  had  gained  the 

1  were  leaning  airiinst  the  low  wall  looking  over  the 
iiiosi.     The  broad  expanse  of  heath  was  bathed  in  the  pun;  silvery  light; 
i»room,  and  even   the  rouLih   brambles  seemed  touched  with  a 
lory  and   radianc";   tli--   «  lump  of  young  iirs  in  tii 

Htood    up   dark   and   distinct  against    th  few   twinkling   lights 

from  the  village,  or  rather  the  little  town  of  Urcntwood,  quivered  iiom 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  89 

the  hollow;  a  gas-light  or  two  among  the  trees  near  the  front  entrance 
of  the  Witehens  gave  a  sort  of  cheerfulness  to  the  scene. 

Pauline  heaved  a  deep  sigh  of  content. 

"  How  I  do  love  this  place!"  she  said,  enthusiastically.  "  I  think  it 
would  break  my  heart  to  leave  the  Witchens;  mother  is  always  telling 
us  that  we  shall  have  to  turn  out  when  you  marry,  Launce,  but  some- 
how [  never  seem  to  realize  it." 

"  I  dare  say  not.  I  don't  realize  it  myself,"  was  the  cool  answer,  but 
a  queer  look  passed  over  Launcelot's  face  as  he  spoke,  and  the  next  mo- 
ment he  asked  Miss  liossiler,  who  was  standing  by  him,  if  she  had  ever 
expericneed  what  the  Germans  so  forcibly  term  "  heimweh?" 

"  You  mean  homesickness,  do  you  not?  No,  never,"  she  replied,  in 
a  very  low  voice.  "  Pauline  used  to  suffer  from  it  often  when  she  was 
away,  but  I  hardly  wondered  at  her,  such  a  beautiful  home  as  this,  and 
such  happy  faces  in  it." 

"  My  dear  Huidah,  what  a  tragical  voice!  One  would  think  you  had 
never  known  what  a  happy  home  was.  That  is  the  impression  she 
gives;  is  it  not,  Launce?" 

"  What  is  your  definition  of  a  home?"  she  returned,  fixing  her  large, 
eloquent  eyes  on  Launcelot  as  she  spoke.  She  often  bad  these  grave 
moods  when  she  was  wilh  him  and  Pauline;  and  Launcelot  had  often 
thought  how  well  they  became  her.  He  liked  the  ebullitions  of  deep 
feeling  that  he  sometimes  could  evoke  by  a  word,  the  swift  alternation 
from  grave  to  gay,  the  brief  somberness  so  soon  replaced  by  child-like 
mirth.  Launcelot  liked  these  varying  moods;  he  admired  them  as  ho 
admired  the  varying  tints  of  a  transparent  complexion,  or  the  changes 
of  a  cloudy  April  sky — nature  delighted  in  these  swift  metamorphoses, 
and  he  delighted  in  them  too.  He  had  always  been  interested  in  Miss 
Rossitcr,  but  he  had  never  admired  her  BO  much  as  he  did  to-night. 
Either  she  had  grown  handsomer-sine^  he  had  last  seen  her,  or  he  viewed 
her  under  a  different  aspect,  but  there  was  some  fresh  development  in 
her — a  new  witchery  to  which  he  was  keenly  alive  to-night.  *'  What  a 
beautiful  creature  she  is,  "he  thought,  as  she  turned  her  hooded  face 
full  on  him.  "I  am  rather  bad  at  definitions, "  he  answered,  rather 
provokingly,  for  he  was  making  a  mental  sketch  of  her  for  future  use; 
"  if  you  consult  Webster — and  he  is  a  very  useful  fellow  in  his  way — 
you  will  find  that  he  defines  home  very  properly  and  correctly  as  a 
'  dwelling-house;  the  house  where  one  resides;  the  place  or  country 
where  one  dwells,  and  also  all  that  pertains  to  a  dwelling- pi  ace;'  but  he 
adds  a  quotation  from  Dryden,  that  '  Home  ig  the  sacred  refuge  of  our 
life.'  I  think  old  Dryden  is  right  there." 

"Then  I  have  never  known  such  a  home,"  returned  the  young 
governess,  in  a  voice  so  low  that  only  Launcelot  heard  her;  indeed,  the 
words  seemed  to  escape  her  \vithout  her  will,  so  he  took  notice,  and 
Pauline  interposed  eagerly. 

"  Yes,  that  is  just  what  home  ought  to  be,  a  refuge  from  the  world 
outside :  not  merely  four  walls  and  a  roof,  but  a  place  where  people  may 
speak  the  truth  and  not  offend." 

"  Contradict  each  other  to  their  hearts'  content?"  annotated  Launce- 
lot. 

"  Yes,  quarrel  and  make  it  up  a  dozen  times  a  day  if  they  like,  rub 
against  each  other's  angles,  and  love  each  other  all  the  better  for  the 
friction." 

"Where  one  fellow  may  refuse  to  laugh  at  another  fellow's  jokefl 
without  being  sat  upon/'  observed  Launcclot,  feelingly. 


90  ONLY     THE     dOVFKK! 

"  Oh,  of  course;  how  often  you  have  told  IVar  to  slmt  up,  and  n»t 
make  an  ass  of  himself." 

"  True;  but  I  never  remember  that  he  ever  did  shut  up." 

"  Xo,  but  lie  never  minded  you  telling  him.  Hear  is  Mich  * 

.    boy.      Why,  even    Geoffrey  lets   himself   be  snubl>ed  some' 
when   Be'e  is  111*0110  of  her  little  black-day 

sharp  speeches?  -why.  the  yen  :  home-life  is  that  01  < 

nay  and  do  what  one  likes. :' 

"  ( )h,  one  could  live  in  a  home  like  that. "  observed  3iiss  J  Jos-iter,  with 
a  siiih.  "  I  don't  think  I  ever  knew  a  family  like  yours.  .Mr.  Chudlci>h; 

::re  all  so  different,  not  one  of  you  alike,  and  yet  you  is. 
quarrel,  it  is  only  make-believe;  you  are  all  so  fond  and  proud  of  each 
other,  that  you  do  not  think  there  is  such  another  family  in  Kngland." 

"  oh,  we  are  well  enough,"  he  retorted,  with  a  laugh  re  all 

good  boys  and  girls  on  the  whole." 

"  If  they  were  not,  you  would  still  be  fond  of  them,"  she  returned, 
with  the  same  earnestness.  "  They  are  sacred  to  you,  and  all  their 
faults  are  as  nothing,  because  you  just  love  them;  it  is  this  tolerance, 
this  wide  charity,  that  makes  the  beauty  of  your  home." 

"  Yes;  but,  Huldah,  most  brothers  and  sisters  love  each  other." 

"  Do  they?"  in  a  melancholy  tone.  "  Well,  I  am  no  fair  judge,  for 
I  never  had  a  brother  or  sister.  Home  has  only  been  to  me  the  four  walls 
and  roof,  until  I  came  here." 

"  Come,  1  scent  a  compliment.  You  are  going  to  tell  us  that  we 
have  made  you  happy." 

"  I  should  be  very  ungrateful  to  deny  it,  when  you  have  all  been  so 
good  to  me.  What  do  1  not  owe  to  Mrs.  Chudleigh,  and  to  you,  Paul- 
ine?" 

"  Nonsense!"  returned  that  younger  person,  bluntly. 

"  I  used  to  hate  the  thought  of  being  a  governess.     I  thought  I 
should  be  left  out  in  the  cold,  and  made  to  keep  my  place  in  the  school- 
room, but  your  sisters  are  so  good  to  me,  Mr.  Chudleigh,  Pauline 
cially,  that  I  feel  as  though  I  have  lived  here  all  my  life." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  it,"  was  the  cordial  answer;  "  and  you  had  a 
good  time  with  the  girls  at  Mentone?" 

"  Oh,  yes;  it  was  delightful.  We  were  all  so  happy,  only  I  was  sorry 
we  did  not  have  the  earthquake  that  was  predicted." 

"  Miss  Rossiter!    I  hope  you  are  not  serious. " 

"  That  is  right,  Launce;  she  deserves  a  good  scolding.  I  never  heard 
anything  more  wicked."  . 

"  Then  I  have  shocked  you  both.     I  am  always  shocking  people:  but 
you  must  not  misunderstand  me.     I  did  not  wish  for  an  earthqu 
that  would  be  too  dreadful;  but  if  there  had  been  one  1  should  have 
::ked  to  have  been  there  at  the  time." 

"  Oh,  but  Geoffrey  said  it  was  all  nonsense;  it  was  never  pred 
at  all.     Can  you  understand  such  a  morbid  craving.  Lauiice?     Why,  I 
should  have  wished  myself  a  hundred  miles  a 

"  So  should  I.     I  object  on  princip!  panic.     A 

crowd  mad  with  fear  must  be  a  mo,-t  unedifying  sight.     .Miss  Kos 
in    a   serio-comic  voice,  "  1   feel   half  incline!!  a  little  further 

away  after  that  remark;  your  close  vicinity  makes  me  ui;< 

"You  doubt  my  sanity?"  laughing.     "'Well.  I  ;icran 

^•dinary   speech,      1    dan-  say  I    should 
other  people  if  it,  had  really  happened,  but  1  do  enjoy  n  new  sensation." 

"  In—  drcdV"  in  a  slow,  drawling 


ONLY    THE    GOVEKtfESS.  91 

"  A  storm  at  sea — now  that  would  be  grand;  even  a  shipwreck,  if 
one  could  be  sure  of  being  saved;  or  a  fire.  Oh,  I  have  always  longed 
A  fire;  the  very  descriptions  are  enough.  Only,  of  course,  I  mean 
without  loss  of  life." 

"  Huldali,  I  do  wish  you  would  not  talk  so  wildly,"  returned  Pauline, 
in  n  vexed  voice.  "  It  always  troables  me  when  you  go  on  like  this. 
Launcelot  is  only  laughing  at  you.  He  does  not  believe  for  a  moment 
that  you  are  serious,  neither  do  I.  Why,  I  never  can  endure  that  chap- 
ter about  Korah,  Dathun,  and  Abiram.  It  quite  makes  me  sigh  to  think 
of  the  little  ones  going  down  into  the  pit." 

"  My  dear  Paul,  you  and  I  are  sober,  matter-of-fact  people.  We 
like  our  sensations  tc  be  pleasant  ones,  and  care  nothing  about  their 
novelty." 

"Of  course  I  deserve  to  be  laughed  at,"  in  a  slightly  injured  tone. 
"  I  ought  not  to  tell  out  my  thoughts  in  that  absurd  way,  but  I  can  not 
help  my  nature.  Anything  is  better  than  stagnation  and  monotony. 
Some  lives  remind  me  of  the  blind  horse  at  the  mill;  they  seem  to  turn 
round  and  round  with  undeviatiug  precision,  not  a  footstep  out  of  the 
track.  Oh,  I  should  go  mad  if  I  were  to  lead  that  sort  of  life!" 

"  You  would  prefer  wandering  over  the  earth  in  search  of  cataclysms 

and  catastrophes  of  all  descriptions.     Vesuvius  must  light  its  fire  for 

you:  Hecla  boil  with  fury — torpedoes  and  snakes,  prairie  fires  and 

gigantic  railway  accidents— upon  my  word,  I  hardly  know  how  we  are 

:<T  for  your  morbid  appetite  in  London." 

"  Mr.  Chudleigh,  you  will  make  me  very  angry  directly,"  with  an 
impatient  stamp  of  her  foot;  "  but  I  will  not  lay  myself  open  to  your 
satire  any  more.  Of  course,  I  know  I  have  expressed  myself  awkward- 
ly. What  I  really  meant  was  that  I  would  rather  know  life  under  its 
wider  and  more  terrible  aspects,  than  go  on  day  after  day  leading  the 
<T  existences  that  some  people  lead — doing  just  the  same  things, 
saying  almost  the  same  words,  fearing  to  move  a  hair's-breadth  out  of 
their  narrow  groove.  Why,  people  who  live  in  that  way  remind  me  of 
some  convicts  I  once  saw  exercising  in  a  prison-yard.  Oh,  the  great 
black  walls,  and  the  dreary  sky-lines,  and  the  horrible  dullness  of  those 
faces!"  and  she  shivered.  "  Why  do  they  not  go  mad  or  kill  them- 
selves? I  should,  in  their  place." 

"  Miss  Rossiter,  I  am  afraid  that  you  are  exciting  yourself." 

"  That  is  bidding  me  hold  my  tongue." 

"  Please  do  not  accuse  me  of  such  rudeness;  but  all  the  same  it  is  my 
turn  now." 

"  Oh,  I  am  going  in,"  she  returned,  provokingly.  "  You  must  keep 
your  little  lecture  for  to-morrow  night." 

"  We  can  walk  and  talk  at  the  same  time,"  he  replied,  coolly. 
"  Pauline,  we  are  going  back  to  the  house  now;  the  terrace  is  too  cold 
for  you.  Miss  Rossiter,  will  you  please  give  me  your  attention  a  mo- 
ment?" turning  to  her  with  a  good-natured  air;  and  in  spite  of  her  re- 
luctance she  was  obliged  to  listen. 

"  I  think  you  have  talked  a  good  deal  of  nonsense  to-night,  but  we 
will  let  that  pass.  Young  ladies  often  do  talk  nonsense,  and  no  one 
thinks  the  worse  of  them;  but,  unfortunately,  there  seems  a  method  i? 
your  madness  Like  all  insane  people,  you  evidently  believe  yourself 
sane — 3rou  actually  mean  what  you  say." ' 

"  I  ineun  every  word — every  word!" 

"Oh!"  with  a  sort  of  lofty  pity  that  galled  her  more  than  his  satire. 
"  That  shows  how  very  young  you  must  ba  You  are  finding  fault 


92  ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS. 

with  qxivt,  matter-of-fact  lives.     They  are — according  to  you— !•• 
monotonous,  unutterably  dreary;  but  you  are  making  a  grave  mistake. 
•  )t  the  life,  but  the  environment,  of  which  you  arc  speaking." 

11  <  >h,  you  are  too  clever  for  me,  Air.  Chudleigh;  I  am  iiot  capable  ot 
making  such  nice  distinctions." 

"  I>ut  you  are  capable  of  feeling  them,"  he  persisted.  "  Now  listen 
to  me,  I'am  going  to  repeat  a  passage  from  a  favorite  author  of  irine, 
Grindon.  I  have  read  it  over  until  I  know  it  by  heart.  lie  is  speaking, 
in  his  chapter  on  Longevity,  of  the  true  measurement  of  life.  I  b 
'  Real,  human  life  is  immeasurable,  if  " — digest  this  'if,'  Mi- 
— '  we  will  have  it  so,' and  then  he  goes  on,  'Every  day,'  re-murks 
Goethe,  in  his  autobiography,  *  is  a  vessel  into  which  a  great  deal  may 
be  poured,  if  we  will  actually  fill  it  up;  that  is  with  thoughts  and  I'eci- 
;nd  their  expression  into  deeds  as  elevated  and  amiable  as  we  can 
reach  to;'  and  then  he  goes  on  to  quote  from  Martineau's  '  Endeavors 
after  the  Christian  Life.'  "The  mere  lapse  of  years  is  not  life.  To 
eat,  and  drink,  and  sleep,  to  be  exposed  to  the  darkness  and  light,  to 
pace  round  the  mill  of  habit ':  ' — like  your  blind  horse,  ehV —  "and 
turn  the  wheel  of  wealth;  to  make  reason  our  book-keeper  and  convert 
thought  into  an  implement  of  trade;  this  is  not  life-  In  all  this  but  a 
poor  fraction  of  the  consciousness  of  humanity  is  awakened,  and  the 
sanctities  still  slumber  which  make  it  most  worth  while  to  be. 

'  "  Knowledge,  truth,  love,  beauty,  goodness,  faith,  alone  give  vitality 
the  mechanism  of  existence." 

"That  is  beautiful,"  murmured  Pauline.  Miss  Rossiter  only  said, 
coldly,  "You  have  a  good  memory,"  but  all  the  same  he  knew  how 
attentively  she  had  listened. 

"  I  can  say  nothing  half  so  wise  as  that;  it  is  admirable  philosophy, 
but  I  feel  I  must  set  you  right  on  one  point.  No  human  life,  however 
humdrum  and  uninteresting  it  may  appear  to  a  looker-on,  is  really  com- 
monplace; it  is  not  commonplace  or  uninteresting  to  be  born,  to  die,  to 
have  the  breath  of  life  in  our  nostrils,  to  be  made  in  the  image  of  God. 
N'»,  you  are  wrong,"  throwing  back  his  head  with  a  quick,  passionate 
movement  that  seemed  to  awe  Miss  Rossiter,  for  she  looked  at  him  as 
though  fascinated  in  spite  of  herself.  "  Often  and  often  behind  these 
dull,  tedious  lives,  as  you  call  them,  lie  hidden  tragedies — conllicts 
which  leave  their  scars  forever.  Many  are  thankful  for  the  quiet  routine 
that  dulls  the  memory  of  'the  too  vividly  painted  past.'  Yes,  they 
10  move  out  of  their  groove  for  very  dread  of  meeting  some;  pale 
ghost  of  their  buried  and  gone  happiness;"  but  here  he  stopped  abrupt- 
ly, for  a  low  sob  escaped  Miss  Rossiter. 

"  No,  no;  I  will  not  believe  you,"  she  said,  in  a  choked  voice.  "  <  Mi, 
how  you  pain  me!  It  can  not  be  so!  No  one  could  live  down  misery 
in  that  way;"  and  then  she  paused  and  looked  at  him  in  a  half- fright- 
ened manner,  as  though  imploring  him  to  take  back  his  words. 

"  I  think  I  have  spoken  the  truth,"  he  returned,  gently,  "  but  indeed 
I  did  not  mean  to  pain  you.  I  was  only  speaking  as  1  should  to  I»ea- 
trix  or  Pauline,  if  they  indulged  in  such  exaggerated  talk.  You  are  too 
hard  upon  other  people,  you  only  looked  on  tin;  outside  of  things.  You 
must  go  deeper.  You  must  learn  cliaritv  before  you  judge  truly  of 
life." 

"Yes,"  she  replied,  humbly,  "I  know  you  nuiant  it  only  for  my 
good.  I  have  been  very  fooli>h;  1  ought  not  to  have  talked  so.  May  I 
wish  you  good-night  now,  for  I  am  very  tired?" 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  93 

I  am  sorry  I  tired  yon,"  he  answered,  penitently,  "but  I  can  not 
wish  one  of  my  words  unsaid." 

"No,  indeed,"  observed  Pauline,  when  their  companion's  graceful 
figure  had  turned  the  angle  of  the  house.  "  I  am  very  glad  you  spoke 
iously,  Launce.  I  am  very  fond  of  Hnldah — indeed  I  may  say  I 
love  her — but  there  are  times  when  she  distresses  me  by  this  wild, 
Highly  talk  of  hers.  I  sometimes  think  how  shocked  mother  would  ba 
to  hear  her,  but  Huldah  is  always  careful  in  her  presence." 

"  All,"  he  returned,  absently,  "  she  is  young  and  undisciplined,  and 
slic  lias  never  known  a  home;"  and  then*  they  reached  the  house,  and 
Launcelot  bade  his  sister  an  affectionate  good-night  and  went  to  his 
studio. 

It  had  been  added  recently  to  the  house,  and  the  only  entrance  was 
through  a  small  conservatory. 

The  room  was  quite  dark  when  he  entered  it,  but  he  lighted  a  small 
bronxe  lamp  that  stood  on  the  writing-table,  and  seated  himself  in  a 
carved  antique  chair  placed  beside  it. 

It  was  an  immense  room,  very  finely  proportioned,  and  was  furnished 
with  great  care.  The  studio  proper,  with  its  north  light  and  raised  dais, 
only  occupied  half  the  space,  and  velvet  curtains,  at  present  undrawn, 
could  at  any  moment  shut  off  the  tall  easel  and  half-finished  canvases 
ami  all  the  artistic  odds  and  ends  that  usually  litter  an  artist's  studio. 

The  other  end  of  the  room  was  charming,  and  was  fitted  up  as  a  gen- 
tleman's study.  A  bay-window  with  a  deep  recess  commanded  a  view 
of  the  lawn,  a  cushioned  seat  and  a  low  tea-table  occupied  this  space; 
carved  book-cases,  cabinets,  and  one  or  two  choice  landscapes,  and  a 
beautiful  marble  bust  of  Mrs.  Chudleigh  filled  up  the  walls  and  niches 
— a  portrait  of  her,  painted  by  Launcelot  himself,  was  placed  opposite 
the  writing-table.  A  reading-desk  and  some  easy-chairs  completed  the 
furniture;  handsome  Oriental  rugs  and  a  skin  or  two  covered  portions 
of  the  dark,  polished  floor. 

As  Launcelot  laid  his  head  against  the  back  of  his  chair  he  wondered 
what  Jack  would  think  of  such  a  studio,  and  then  he  meditated  how  he 
was  to  get  Miss  Rossiter  to  sit  to  him  for  his  new  picture. 

"  I  want  just  that  type  of  face  for  my  central  figure,"  he  thought, 

'  My  sonne's  faire  wife  Elizabeth.'  I  always  imagined  her  with  just 
that  ruddy  brown  hair,  moving  across  the  grassy  lea  with  her  two  chil- 
dren," and  he  softly  quoted  to  himself  the  quaint  lines — 

"  That  flow  strewed  wrecks  about  the  grass, 

That  ebbe  swept  out  the  flocks  to  sea; 
A  fatal  ebbe  and  flow,  alas ! 

To  manye  more  thati  myne  and  mee; 
But  each  will  mourn  his  own  (she  saith), 
And  sweeter  woman  ne'er  drew  breath, 
Than  my  sonne's  wife  Elizabeth." 

' '  Madella  must  manage  it  for  me,"  he  continued,  soliloquizing  half 
dreamily;  "  her  face  is  just  what  I  want,  but  there  is  no  motherhood  in 
it ;  the  children  must  be  young,  mere  toddling  mites. 

"  '  And  dark  against  day's  golden  death 
She  moveth  where  Lindis  wandereth, 
My  sonne's  faire  wife  Elizabeth.'  " 

And  then  he  crossed  the  room,  lamp  in  hand,  and  looked  long  and 
thoughtfully  at  the  canvas  stretched  on  the  easel. 

"  She  is  an  extraordinary  girl,"  he  muttered,  "  but  I  found  her  very 
interesting  to-night.  She  is  more  than  interesting;  she  takes  hold  of 


04  ONLY    THE 

one's  imagination  somehow;  she  has  no\  it  of  my  mind  ; 

gle  day  all  this  time;  she  is  a  woman  i!  M'sho 

to  marry,  1  do  not  believe  her  husband  would  lea<; 

existence!     Sin-  .citing;  :i  man  would  liardly  find  her  restful." 

And  tlii'ii  lie  made  a  sort  of  grimace  and  shook  himself,  but  t 
strange  glow  in  his  eyes,  as  he  turned  away  humming  the  musical  lines 
of  -lean  Inflow's  poem  thai  had  been  floating  in  his  nead  for  days: 


C'usha'  Cush:i!  dislia! 
Ere  the  early  dews  were  fai. 
Farre  away,  I  heard  her  sin^, 
Ousha!  Cusha!  all  alotiLr, 
Where  the  reedy  Lindis  lloweth, 

Floweth,  floweth, 

From  the  meads  where  nielieh  ^roweth 
Faintly  came  her  milking  s 


CHAPTER   XV. 

"MY    SONNF/S   FAIKE   -UIFE  ELIZABETH." 

One  can  sometimes  love  that  which  we  do  not  understand,  but  it  is  impossible 
clearly  to  understand  what  we  do  not  love. — GRINDON'S  Life  and  Sot* 

LAFNCELOT  drove  Dossie  down  to  Priory  Road  the  next  morning  to 
explain  matters  more  thoroughly  to  Miss  Thorpe,  and  to  bring  away  the 
shabby  portmanteau  that  held  the  child's  scanty  wardrobe. 

"She  looks  brighter  already,"  observed  Miss  Thorpe,  when  !> 
had  left  the  room  on  some  errand,  and  she  was  right;  even  a  few  hours 
had  made  a  difference  in  her  appe \rance. 

The  child  had  found  herself  all  at  once  surrounded  by  kind,  friendly 
faces;  she  had  awakened  from  a  troubled  dream  the  previous  night  to 
see  her  aunt  Delia  beside  her.     Dossie  had  sobbed  out  all  her  con 
half-waking  grief  in  those  kind  arms.     The  forlorn  little  crcatn 
suddenly  weighted  with  troubled,  was  not  left  to  battle  through  the 
dark  miserable  hour  alone — no,  that  was  not  Mrs.  Chudlei- 
she  had   fallen  asleep   again   comforted,  and   still   holding   her  aunt's 
hand,  and  her  refreshing  morning's  slumbers  had  been  broken  by  Sybil, 
who  stood  by  her  cousin's  bed  with  her  hands  full  of  spring  flowers  thai 
she,  and  Miss  Rossiter  had  just  gathered. 

"  You  were  so  fast  asleep  that  we  did  not  like  to  rouse  y 
>,said.     "  You  must  be  dreadfully  tired,  Dossie.  not  to-wake  this  lovely 
morning.     Why,  we  have  been  for  quite  a  long  walk;  all  round  the 

i  and  across  the  common." 

"  Lie  still,  and  I  will   bring  you  some  breakfast,,  my  dear."  add«*d 
Miss   Rossiter,  who  had  followed  Sybil,    and  she   kissed   !• 
nffeclionately.     Dossie  did   as  she  was   told,  and  lay  very  contentedly 
watching  the  governess  arrange  the  tlowcrs.     M- 
bright  as  the  spring  morning,  glowing  with   fresh  air  and  e 

dilTerent  being  to  the  girl  whose,  wild  talk  had  jarred  upon  Paul- 
ense  of  fitness;  earthquakes,  uneongeiiial  homes,  somber  i. 

led  to  the  dead  past.      Kvidenllyti.  ••-.   brighter 

'  for   her  this   morning.     All   the   time  l.owls  and 

with  Sybil's  help,  she  sung  snalehe^  of  Italian  airs  in  a  charming  • 
Launcelot  heard  her  as  he  went.  d:>\vn  the  ! 
himself. 

-  Thorpe  hade  r  that 

m.st  often  come  and  >ee'  her  and  Ivan,  but  Dossie  made  no  audible 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  95 

reply  to  this.  She  gave  a  lit.tle  sigh  of  relief  when  she  found  herself  in 
the  phaeton  again  and  La uncelot  turned  the  mare's  head  in  the  direc- 
tion of  Overton  Bridge. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  do  not  appreciate  my  friends  sufficiently,  Dossie, '% 
observed  Launcelot,  pretending  to  shake  his  head.  "  You  did  not  thank 
Miss  Thorpe  for  her  kind  invitation." 

"  1  don't  want  to  go  very  often,"  returned  Dossie,  with  simple  truth- 
fulness. "  Miss  Thorpe  is  very  kind,  but  I  would  rather  stop  with  you 
and  Aunt  Delia,"  and  Launcelot  said  nothing  more. 

Dossie  did  not  cease  for  many  a  long  week  to  fret  for  her  father. 
Hers  was  a  faithful  nature,  and  all  the  kindness  of  her  new  relations 
could  not  at  first  make  her  happy;  but  she  no  longer  moped  and  pined 
to  the  detriment  of  her  health,  and  after  a  time  her  grave  little  face 
brightened,  and  her  eyes  grew  less  sad  and  wistful. 

From  the  first  moment  she  manifested  a  strong  affection  for  her  aunt 
Delia,  and  indeed  nothing  could  exceed  Mrs.  Chudleigh's  motherly  ten- 
derness; she  had  Dossie  constantly  with  her,  and  watched  over  her 
health  with  maternal  anxiety. 

After  her  aunt  Delia  Dossie  placed  Miss  Rossiter  in  her  list  of  favor- 
ites, though  she  still  regarded  Lauucelot  as  her  chief  friend,  but  the 
governess's  bright  genial  nature,  her  child-like  mirth»and  sense  of  fun 
had  a  fascination  for  the  child,  who  was  rather  precocious  and  old- 
fashioned  in  her  ways.  Beatrix  and  Geoffrey  came  last  in  her  estima- 
tion, though  she  responded  to  their  advances  with  the  grave  gentleness 
that  was  natural  to  her;  but  they  were  all  very  kind  to  her,  and  even 
Bernard,  who  was  a  general  tease,  would  cease  his  jokes  if  Dossie 
seemed  at  all  bewildered  by  them;  indeed,  in  spite  of  their  disparaging 
remarks,  the  whole  family  would  have  missed  the  quiet,  blue-eyed  child 
who  was  always  so  ready  to  wait  on  everybody,  and  who  never  gave 
any  one  trouble.  The  youngest  boy,  Fred,  or  Freckles  as  he  was  gen- 
erally called,  from  the  fact  that  his  fair  skin  was  always  liable  to 
freckles,  indorsed  the  general  opinion  that  Dossie  was  a  nice  little  girl. 

Freckles  was  a  pleasant-looking  boy,  with  rather  melancholy  brown 
eyes,  and  an  unusually  gentle  bearing;  but  woe  be  to  the  boy  who  was 
deceived  by  the  mild  suavity  of  Freckles's  manner  or  the  languid  in- 
difference of  his  voice. 

Freckles  would  drawl  out  jokes  that  would  convulse  his  brothers  and 
with  laughter;  when  people  predicted  the  gentle  melancholy  lad 
•wouk'  certainly  go  into  a  decline,  Freckles  would  be  planning  some 
practical  joke  that  would  make  Geoffrey  or  Bernard  threaten  dire 
vengeance  on  his  luckless  head.  Even  his  mother  hardly  understood 
the  boy. 

"  It  must  be  a  mistake,  Launcelot,"  she  would  say,  with  tears  in  hei 
eyes,  when  an  unusually  bad  report  of  the  young  scapegrace  reachcil 
her  ears;  "dear  Fred  is  so  quiet  and  well-behaved,  he  would  never 
have  incited  those  boys  to  such  mischief." 

"  Freckles  has  never  been  out  of  mischief,  except  when  he  has  been 
asleep,  since  the  day  he  was  born,"  returned  Launcelot,  severely;  "  as 
a  baby  he  pla&ued  his  nurse  to  death,  and  now  he  is  the  torment  of  a!5 
his  masters.  Mischief  is  natural  to  him,  I  believe;  he  can  not  help  play 
ing  -anks  any  :-ore  than  Jack  could."  But  though  Launcelot  held 
this  view  of  Fn  -kles's  depravity  he  was  exceedingly  fond  of  the  boy, 
and  Freckles,  wh  >  adored  his  oldest  brother,  never  attempted  one  of  his 
practical  jokes  on  him — his,  Launcelot's  position  of  head  of  the  family 
investing  him  wit  i  a  obtain  dignity  even  in  Freckles's  lawless  eyes. 


l,ap,w- 


96  ON:  .  rss. 

It  was  hardly  surprising  then  tl>  :•••>  whom  boys  were  un- 

known animals  an  1  who  had  never  had -i  boy  friend  of  her  own 
sadly  pu/./led  by  the  lugubrious  1'x  d. 

Oil  ihe  first  evening,  touched,  and  indeed  instinctively  drawn  to  him 
by  the  plaintive  expression  of  tlic  lad's  soft  brown  eyes,  she  had  whis- 
pered to  him — 

•  What  are  you  thinking  about?    Why  do  you  look  so  dreadfully  un- 

:''.     Has  any  one  been  scolding  you?" 

returned  Freckles,  slowly,  "  but  can  you  keep 

<;  Yes — no— at  least  I  would  rather  not  know,  if  it  is  any  thin 
bad,"  replied  Dossie,  shrinking  back  a  little. 

"  Oh,  it  won't  hurt  you,"  a  little  contemptuously;  "  but  there,  girls 
never  ran  keep  secrets.  Sybil  never  could;  she  always  blabbed  out 
everything  to  Miss  Rossiter;  that  is  why  I  call  her  '  Tell-tale  Tit:'  Tit 
for  short  you  know.  She  spoiled  a  splendid  thing  of  mine  last  holi- 
days " 

"  Oh,  I  wish  you  would  tell  me,"  sighed  Dossie,  in  rather  a  trembling 
voice.  "  I  don't  like  secrets  much,  but  when  I  see  people  unhappy  I 
always  want  to  help  them." 

"  Very  well,  then;  you  shall  help  me.  You  know  that  big  cupboard 
in  Bee's  room;  well,  I  owe  her  a  grudge,  and  I  am  going  to  pay  my 
Jady  out.  I  am  going  to  hide  behind  all  her  dve>srs,  and  just  I 
she  turns  the  gas  on,  I  mean  to  say,  in  a  sepulchral  tone,  '  Ah,  what 
dost  thou,  Beatrix  ' — but  what  was  to  follow  was  never  known,  for 
Dossie  turned  so  pale  and  looked  so  frightened  at  the  bare  idea  of  such 
a  trick,  and  begged  Freckles  so  earnestly  not  to  do  it,  that  he  reluctant- 
ly renounced  his  novel  vengeance,  but  he  never  afterward  confided  his 
plans  to  Dossie.  "  Girls  are  no  good,"  he  observed  on  more  than  one 
occasion  in  hers  and  Sybil's  hearing. 

But  he  was  very  kind  to  her  after  his  fashion,  and  Dossie  grew  to 
understand  him  better.  She  never  questioned  him  again  on  the  meaning 
of  his  melancholy  and  abstracted  looks,  but  now7  and  then  she  electri- 
fied him  by  whispering  in  his  ear  when  he  looked  unusually  sad, 
"  Please  don't  do  it,  Freckles,  you  had  much  better  not,"  a  species  of 
clairvoyance  that  made  him  speechless  with  ama/cment. 

Launcelot  had  got  his  way:  the  new  picture  was  in  full  progress,  and 
Miss  Kossiter  sat  to  him  daily. 

She  was  always  accompanied  to  the  studio  by  Pauline,  who  was  her 
brother's  pupil,  and  painted  landscapes  very  prettily,  and  sometimes 
Mrs.  Chudleigh  would  bring  her  work  and  join  the  young  people,  but 
her  presence  wras  never  the  slightest  constraint  or  hindered  the  How  of 
their  lively  talk. 

These  afternoons  were  very  pleasant  to  Launcelot.  His  work  always 
entranced  him,  and  when  he  had  a  picture  on  hand  it  was  diHicult  *to 
lure  him  from  his  easel,  The  day  seemed  too  short,  and  at  such  timea 
any  interruption  was  irksome  to  him. 

But  he  did  not  care  for  solitude,  and  nothing  pleased  him  better  than 
hudleigh  or  Pauline  to  sit  beside  him  and  take  intere>t  in  his 
work.    I5ec  scidom  came,  thotiirh  he  always  welcomed  hi  .'lily, 

but    H'-e  was   too  active;  and  managing  to  have  many  idle  h'; 
hand.     She  had  no  special  taste  for  arl.  and  she  liked  belter  to  pr 
on   the   12; rand   pianoforte  in    Die   big  empty  d rawing  room,  or  to  si nd_y 

Xow  and  then,  when  the  sitting  was  over,  they  uould  all  assemble 
lur  tive  o'olock  tea  in  the  west  win;' 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  97 

jouraing  to  the  drawing-room  or  morning-room.  These  occasions  were 
highly  pri/ed  by  Dossie,  the  little  square  tea-table  round  which  they 
crowded  looked  so  cozy  and  inviting.  The  children  sat  on  the  deep 
step  that  led  to  the  bay,  and  took  their  tea  in  picnic  fashion,  while  their 
elders  laughed  and  chatted  and  discussed  their  little  plans;  sometimes 
Launceloi  would  break  off  abruptly  and  go  back  to  his  painting,  while 
the  girls  still  lingered  at  the  table. 

What  a  pretty  picture  it  all  made,  he  thought,  and  more  than  once  it 
came  into  his  head  that  he  must  paint  that  family  group;  Madella  and 
the  girls,  the  two  children  with  the  dogs  stretched  at  their  feet,  Miss 
.riding  beside  them,  the  carved  cabinets  and  tables  beyond,  a 
soft  background  of  green  lawn  with  a  dark  cedar  spreading  fts  wide 
foliage,  and  Sybil's  lame  p'geons  fluttering  about  the  window-sill. 

At,  this  time  Launcelot  passed  hours  daily  in  Miss  llossiter's  presence, 
but  he  never  once  noticed  an  approach  to  sadness  in  her  manner.  Some- 
limes  he  would  pretend  to  grumble  at  her  prosaic  cheerfulness.  "  Now 
Kli/abeth,"  he  would  say,  very  gravely,  "how  am  I  to  paint  the 
pathetic  expression  that  ought  to  be  on  your  face  when  you  will  persist 
in  looking  so  provokingly  happy?  Have  I  not  read  the  poem  over  and 
over  again  to  you,  and  yet  you  will  not  understand  the  duty  thai  is  re- 
quired of  you." 

"  Oh!"  she  said,  with  a  sort  of  frank  impertinence,  "  it  is  '  C'usha, 
Cusha,  Cusha,'  that  I  am  calling,  and  one  need  not  look  sad  over  that; 
it  is — 

"  '  Come  uppe  Whitefoot,  come  uppe  Lightfoot, 
Come  uppe  Jetty:  rise  and  follow 
Jetty  to  the  milkiug  shed.1  " 

"  No,  no,"  he  returned,  impatiently;  "  you  have  done  with  the  milk- 
•  ng  forever.  Jetty  and  AVhitefoot  have  long  ago  been  choked  by 
th'j  murderous  surf;  you  are  no  longer  looking  for  them.  You  are 
startled  to  see  the  line  of  foam,  the  thunder  or  the  mighty  wave  is  in 
your  ears,  you  are  straining  your  eyes,  and  your  infant  is  at  your  bteast, 
and  the  other  child  has  hidden  his  little  face  in  your  gown.  What  dot;s 
it  mean— the  noise,  the  breaking  spray,  the  sullen  roar?  Ah,  il  is  of 
the  children  you  think,  and  of  the  distant  husband,  and  of  the  death- 
wav< 

"  Oh,  your  descriptions  are  too  vivid,"  she  returned,  with  an  invol- 
untary shudder.  "  I  do  not  wish  to  think  about  such  dreadful 
things." 

Launcelot  smiled. 

•r  mind,  we  shall  do  very  well,  I  dare  say.     I  shall  have  to  re- 
call a  cei  tain  expression  that  was  pathetic  enough  for  my  purpose,"  and 
her  color  changed  a  little;  "  and  there  is  one  thing,  there  must  have 
;i  wind — oh,  yes,  of  course  there  must  have  been  a  wind,  and  it 
has  loosened  the  hair  under  your  kerchief,  and  some  of  it  must  trail 
over  one  shoulder." 

"Very  well,  "-she  returned,  good- humoredly,  for  she  was  anxious 
that  he  should  not  be  disappointed  with  his  beautiful  picture,  "  Pauline 
shall  help  me  to  arrange  my  wind-blown  tresses  to-morrow,"  and  then 
she  gave  herself  a  little  shake  as  though  she  were  weary  of  her  long 
standing,  and  a -few  minutes  afterward  Tie  saw  her  cross  the  lawn  with 
the  two  little  girls,  and  it  seemed  to  him  as  he  watched  her  as  though 
the  grass  could  hardly  feel  those  light,  springy  footsteps. 

Launcelot  used  to  falk  to  her  when  he  had  an  easy  piece  of  work  be- 
fore him.  She  was  very  frt':h  ;;;:d  lively  in  conversation,  and  often 


98  OXLY    1  KSS. 

made  speeches  that  were  sparkling  with  naivete  and  \viL,  but  he 
never  induce  her  to  speak  of  her  old  life;  she  only  told  him  once  that 
Flic  had  lived  as  companion  with  an 'old  lady  who  died  and  wbi 
very  kind  to  her,  but  that  she  liked  being  with  children  best. 

"'  Do  you  know,"  he  said  one  day,  very  thoughtfully,  when  Pauline 
had  left  them  alone  for  a  l'c\v  minutes,  "  that  fhave  found  out  some- 
thing about  you  that  has  greatly  surprised  me?" 

"About  me?"  she  asked;  but  he  could  sec  that  she  was  very  much 
startled. 

"  Vcs;  I  have  discovered  that  in  spite  of  all  your  frankn. 
vjery  reserved  person,  that  no  one  can  make  you  open  your  lips  if  you 
think  proper  to  close  them,  and  1  confess  that  this  surprises  me  a 
deal;  it  is  an  incongruity,  so  much  frankness  and  yet  such  impenetra- 
ble reserve." 

"  Oh,  I  am  not  naturally  reserved,"  she  returned,  with  rather  a  eon 
strained  smile,  "but  my  life  has  been  hard  and  has  taught  me  many 
useful  lessons.     Is  it  not  Solomon  who  tells  us  that  '  there  is  a  lime  to 
talk  and  a  time  to  be  silent'?"     But  he  made  no  answer  to  this,  for  he 
was  revolving  in  his  mind  the  first  part  of  her  sentence. 

"  No,  you  are  not  naturally  reserved;  anyone  can  see  that,"  and  then 
Pauline  came  back  bringing  an  account  of  some  visitors  JJee  was 
taining  in  the  drawing-room. 

Launcelot  was  dimly  conscious  of  the  fact  that  he  took  far  too  much 
pleasure  in  Miss  Rossiter's  society;  he  had  been  strangely  interested  in 
her  from  the  first,  but  since  the  return  of  the  family  from  Mentone  he 
was  aware  that  this  interest  had  deepened.  Her  individuality  and  gavety 
seemed  to  pervade  the  house,  she  was  always  so  good-natured  and  pleas- 
ant, so  ready  to  do  kind  things  for  every  one,  from  tending  Mrs.  ('hud 
leigh  when  she  suffered  from  one  of  her  bad  sick  headaches,  to  nursing 
the  kitchen-maid  with  a  quinsy.  Launcelot  found  her  in  the  stable- 
yard  once,  binding  up  Neale's  cut  finger,  and  the  children  at  th- 
dener's  cottage  were  devoted  to  her  ever  since  she  had  nursed  their 
baby  brother  m  an  attack  of  croup. 

No,  there  was  no  denying  her  goodness  of  heart;  and  then  how  charm- 
ing were  her  manners,  so  perfectly  devoid  of  self-consciousness  and 
coquetry!  She  never  gave  herself  the  airs  of  a  pretty  woman. 
to  expect  admiration.  He  had  watched  her  ofteu,  and  he  had  never 
seen  her  brighten  at  the  approach  of  any  man,  and  yet  few  came  to  the 
Witchens  without  paying  marked  attention  to  the  handsome 

He  had  once  hinted  this  to  his  step-mother,  and  she  had 
quite  placidly — 

"  My  dear,  you  are  perfectly  right.     Miss  Rossiter  has  no  vanity.     I 
wish  Bee  would  take  after  her  in  that  respect      Bee  is  far  too  con-. 
Hiss  Uossiter  does  not  care  for  gentlemen  at  all.     I  think  their  admiia 
lion  1)0 res  her;   she  seems  to  enjoy  ladies' company  best ,  si: 
Mcady  youiiL!  person,  and  exceedingly  well  behaved,  indeed,  her  li 
admirable.     I  often  thought  so  at  Mentone  when  all  those  silly  fellows 
were  pestering  her  with  attentions." 

"MnMella,"  was  all  his    reply  to  this,  "I  do  not  know  whetl' 
are  exceedingly  wise  or  exceedingly  foolish,  but  if  mischie. 
will  bo  your  doing." 

"  Oh,  Launce,"  in  a  hurt  voice,    "what  can   you   m«an— mi 
\Vhy,  (Jeoffrey  has  never  taken  Hie  lea^l  notice  of  her,  1  have  to) 
M)  before— he  was  far  more  to  Nora  llamblyn,  and  H 

why,  he  would  never  think  of  such  a  thing.    Oh,  1  can  trust  my  boys, 


'  OKLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  99 

finished  the  simple  woman.  "  I  am  on]}-  thankful  that  the  dear  girls 
should  have  such  a  steady  companion." 

Launcelot  was  quite  ready  to  indorse  his  step-mother's  opinion  as  to 
Miss  Rossiter's  steadiness;  her  tact  often  surprised  him,  and  she  never 
took  advantage  of  the  kindness  and  consideration  shown  her.  She 
never  forgot,  or  let  others  forget,  that  she  was  Sybil's  governess,  and  on 
all  occasions  she  showed  a  pretty  deference  to  Bee,  who  was  apt  to  be  a 
little  exacting. 

Launcelot  did  not  care  to  question  his  feelings  too  closely.  He  re- 
fused to  acknowledge  even  to  himself  that  he  was  in  danger  of  falling 
in  love  with  Miss  Kossite'r.  He  felt  particularly  happy  just  now,  but 
then  he  was  never  otherwise  than  happy.  He  had  never  indulged  in 
the  discontented  Byronic  moods  that  are  sometimes  common  to  young 
men  of  genius.  His  temperament  was  equable,  and  not  subject  *to  hot 
and  cold  fits.  lie  said  to  himself  that  he  was  delighted  to  have  his 
womenfolk  about  him  again;  that  he  had  mi-sed  Madella  and  the  girls, 
and  that  it  was  pleasant  to  have  the  old  sociable  evenings  once  more; 
but  he  forbore  to  add  that  those  evenings  were  strangely  incomplete 
without  Miss  Rossiter's  presence.  She  had  been  absent  once,  and  he 
was  surprised  to  find  how  much  he  had  missed  her,  and  how  flat  the 
music  sounded  to  him  without  the  rich  contralto  voice  that  was  one  of 
her  attractions. 

Launcelot  was  passionately  fond  of  music,  and  could  play  and  sing 
very  well  himself;  indeed,  they  were  all  musical,  but  no  one  could  com- 
pete with  Miss  Rossiter.  Strange  to  say,  she  generally  sung  pathetic  old 
ballads,  with  a  pathos  and  beauty  of  expression  that  was  surprising  in 
so  lively  a  person. 

Once  or  twice  the  deep  melodious  voice  had  so  moved  Launcelot  that 
he  had  left  the  room  and  strolled  up  and  down  the  hall,  wondering  at 
the  overpowering  melancholy  that  had  seized  on  him,  and  ready  to  de- 
clare himself  moonstruck  or  bewitched;  but  he  never  let  her  know  the 
extent  of  her  power.  But  this  was  not  all.  As  the  spring  crept  on  and 
budded  into  early  summer,  and  the  "Witchens  grew  gay  with  garden- 
parties  and  impromptu  dances,  Launcelot  became  conscious  that  a  curi- 
ous conflict  was  taking  place  within  him,  that  some  indefinable  instinct 
that  seemed  like  a  presentiment  was  moving  him.  to  resistance  against 
the  growing  fascination  that  Miss  Rossiter  exercised  over  him;  he  was 
vaguely  sensible  of  this,  and  yet  he  could  give  no  reason  for  these  un- 
f  eel  ings. 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  showed  signs  of  a  vaccilating  will,  and 
his  actions  were  contradictory  and  unequal,  and  yet  no  man  could  be 
more  decided  on  emergencies;  nor  had  he  ever  been  otherwise  than 
straightforward,  but  he  was  at  a  loss  to  understand  his  own  feelings,  or 
what  the  subtle  voice  within  -him  meant  that  seemed  to  warn  him  that 
any  entanglement  of  this  sort  would  only  lead  to  unhappiness. 

Launcelot  refrained  from  arguing  the  question  honestly  with  himself; 
a  singular  cowardice  that  was  foreign  to  his  nature  made  him  prefer  to 
keep  his  feeling  in  abeyance,  and  to  drift  on  pleasantly  from  day  to 
day.  So  he  never  asked  himself  why  he  was  not  free  to  fall  in  love 
with  Miss  Rossiter  if  he  chose  to  dp  so.  No  one  would  have  a  right 
to  object  because  she  happened  to  be  his  step-mother's  governess.  Many 
a  man  better  born,  and  far  more  wealthy,  would  be  glad  to  secure  such 
a  prize.  "Would  any  one  deny  that  she  was  a  gentlewoman,  that  she 
was  his  sisters'  equal  in  good  breeding?  No,  he  had  never  vexed  him- 
self with  this  sort  of  question.  It  was  simply  a  strange  instinct  for 


100  ONLY    THE    GOVERN! 

which  lie  could  not  account,  that  made  him  unconsciously  res 
Ing  passion  for  a  woman  who  certainly  fascinated  himmoi- 
woman  he  hail  ever  known. 

Sometimes  lie  wondered  what  she  thought  of  him,  but  he  could  never 
answer  this  question  satisfactorily  to  himself.     She  was  aT 
friendly  in  her  manners  to  him,  but  theie  was  no  shyness  no 
ness  of  the  quiet  looks  that  watched  her  day  by  day. 

"  Huldah  wonders  how  any  one  can  be  afraid  of  you, "  Pauli: 
to  him  once,  as  they  were  riding  together.     Launcelot  kept  a  riding- 
horse   for  his  sisters,  and  rode  with  them  by  turns.     They  were  both 
very  fair  equestrians,  but  Bee's  beautiful  figure  showed  to  • 
vantage,  and  she  was  always  noticed  in  the  Row. 

"  Oh,  indeed?"  observed  Lauucelot,  flicking  his  mare's  glossy  1lank 
with  his  whip. 

"  Yes;  she  says  you  are  so  perfectly  gentle  that  one  could  tell  you  any- 
thing— confide  in  you,  she  meant;  and  I  said,  '  Yes,  that  is  very  per- 
fectly true,  for  when  we  were  naughty  little  girls  and  got  into  di- 
with  our  governess,  Bee  and  I  always  got  you  to  intercede  for  ue 
then  we  were  sure  to  be  forgiven.'  ' 

"  And  what  did  Miss  Rossiter  say  to  that,  Paul,  my  dear?" 

"  Oh,  she  smiled,  and  said  that  she  had  never  felt  shy  of  you  at  all, 
and  that  she  could  quite  understand  that  we  should  all  take  our  troubles 
to  you,  and  that  we  were  happy  to  have  so  good  a  brother,  and 
are,"  finished  Pauline,  with  an  affectionate  glance,  but  just  then  they 
reached  a  wider  stretch  of  common,  and  Launcelot  proposed  a  rain 
the  grass. 

"  If  she  were  in  any  great  trouble  would  she  come  to  me,  I  wonder?" 
thought  Launcelot,  and  this  thought  occupied  him  all  through  the  re- 
mainder of  the  ride. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 
BEE'S  SATURDAYS. 

1  have  been  accustomed  to  study  men's  count enam-cs,  aud  I  can  read  in  thine 
honesty  aud  resolution.— Ivanhoe. 

The  man  whom  I  call  deserving  tht>  nann-  is  <>nr  \\  hose  thoughts  un<l  exertions  are 
•iers  rather  thau  for  himself.— Pet*  ril  of  tltc  I'mk. 

WHEN  the  second  week  in  May  arrived,  Bee  informed  the  assembled 
family  one  morning  at  the  breakfast-table,  with  much  solemnity.  Ili.it 
their  Saturdays  were  about  to  commence,  and  that  their  iMentnno 
acquaintances,  Miss  Uamblyn  and  her  brother,  had  promised  to  come 
on  the  opening  one. 

"  Xora  is  to  stay  with  us,  you  know,"  observed  Bee,  carelessly  ad 
dreeing  her  eldest  brother,  "  and  we  have  sent  a  card  to  the  Maxwells, 
Pauline  seemed  to  wish  it." 

"Oh,  Bee,  1  thought  you  proposed  it  yourself,"  responded  Pauline, 
wilh  heightened  color.  '  "  I  only  said  Charlotte  would  t<  :ted  if 

'•-ed  the  Hamblyns  and  ignored  them,  when  Doctor  Maxwell  was 
so  atientive  about  yo'ur  ankle,  too." 

"  My  dear,  you  appeared  1o  wish  it  very  mueh,"  was  the  rejoinder, 
f-ir  B<-e  could  say  sharp  little  things  gometil  "You  know  I  did 

not  lake  a   fancy  t<>   .Miss   M.-i.\ \\ell   myself.     She  v. 
'i-d. " 

'    Pax,  pax,  my  children,"  observed  Lauacelot,  who  delected  n 


ONLY    THE    GOTFENESS.  101 


hovering  on  Pauline's  lips;  for,  like  Vaofjt  "Varrii-  hearted  people,  she 
disliked  hearing  any  fault  found  yi'th  her,  fri^n^.arr^  5eeft  could  be 
merciless  on  small  foibles.  "  So  Vhe.  S!jfii'Mjp>\ir6  to  b^i-i.'as  .uSual, 
with  Geoffrey  as  master  of  the  ceremonies?" 

"  Well,  you  know  you  never  care  for  a  fuss,"  was  the  smooth  an- 
swer, "  and  Geoff  enjoys  it." 

"  Yes,  Geoff  is  just  the  fellow  for  you  ladies  —  makes  himself  pleas- 
ant and  never  looks  too  bored.  There  is  a  career  before  you,  my  boy! 
Well,  have  your  way,  Bee,  and  let  Pauline  have  hers.  No  division  hi 
the  camp,  mind.  This  is  Liberty  Hall,  and  every  one's  friends  are  to 
be  welcomed,"  with  a  stress  on  the  last  word. 

"Thank  you,  Launce,"  with  a  relieved  air,  from  Bee;  but  Pauline 
only  squeezed  her  brother's  hand1  as  he  passed  with  a  force  that  made 
him  smile. 

"Poor  little  Paul!  I  am  afraid  Bee  provokes  her  sometimes,  "  he 
said  to  himself,  as  he  sauntered  into  his  studio.  "  They  arc  rather 
different  in  their  tastes,  i  will  keep  a  sharp  lookout  on  these  Hamblyna 
and  Maxwells;  confound  that  Mentone!"  and  then  he  unfolded  his 
paper. 

The  Saturdays  were  much  appreciated  by  the  Chudleighs'  friends, 
and  were  very  different  to  the  crowded  and  formal  "  at  homes  "  in  which 
society  at  present  delights.  They  were  in  reality  weekly  garden-parties, 
but  a  wet  Saturday  seldom  kept  people  away.  The  girls  and  Geoffrey 
managed  everything,  though  their  mother  was  nominal  hostess.  From 
the  first  Launcelot  gave  them  to  understand  that  he  was  by  no  means 
bound  to  present  himself  on  these  occasions;  and  though  when  he  was 
at  home  the  first  gleam  of  moving  draperies  between  the  trees  always 
lured  him  to  the  spot,  where  he  invariably  remained  until  the  last  vis- 
itor had  departed,  he  took  no  leading  part  in  the  proceedings,  and  always 
referred  any  questions  to  Bee  or  Geoff  rey. 

It  "was  unanimously  voted  by  the  neighborhood  that  the  Chudleighs 
perfectly  understood  this  sort  of  thing,  and  that  these  weekly  receptions 
were  the  pleasantest  affairs  possible. 

Strangers  and  casual  acquaintances  received  their  invitation  cards 
with  all  due  formality,  and  were  only  made  aware  of  the  fact  that  Mrs. 
Chudleigh  would  be  "  at  home  "  from  four  to  seven  on  such  and  such 
a  date;  but  to  their  intimate  friends  Bee  would  write  charming  little 
notes.  "  Our  Saturdays  will  commence  next  week,  and  we  hope  to  see 
you  and  your  sisters  as  often  during  the  summer  as  you  care  to  give  us 
that  pleasure.  Of  course  we  shall  be  glad  to  see  any  friend  who  may 
DC  staying  with  you.  We  shall  be  able  to  manage  three  sets  of  tennis, 
so  of  course  you  will  bring  your  rackets,"  and  so  on.  And  the  re- 
cipient of  one  of  these  notes  considered  him  or  herself  to  be  made  free 
of  the  Witcheus  until  the  middle  of  August. 

There  was  always  a  goodly  sprinkling  of  gentlemen  on  the  Saturdays, 
Geoffrey  knew  several  rising  young  barristers,  and  his  and  Bernard's 
Oxford  friends  were  available  in  the  long  vacation.  Launcelot's  club 
and  artist  acquaintances  often  put  in  an  appearance,  for  the  Witchens 
was  considered  a  very  pleasant  house.  Mrs.  Chudleigh  was  still  greatly 
admired,  and  her  soft  graciousness  made  her  a  perfect  hostess;  while 
Bee's  pretty  face  and  sprightly  manners,  and  Pauline's  gentleness  and 
good  sense,  made  them  much  sought  after  by  their  friends,  and 
Geoffrey's  cleverness  and  gentlemanly  bearing  always  made  their  mark. 
though  neither  he  nor  Bernard  was  as  popular  as  their  elder  brother. 

"  The  girls  won't  look  at  us  when  old  Launce  makes  his  appearance," 


103  Ols  3  KSS. 

Bernard  used  to  say,  in  an  injured  tone.  "  I  do  not,  know  why  they 
tiiul  him--  r  he  is'noi  a  bit  liandsoine,  and  does  not 'fall  in 

lovt1  will:   ;uv<'l    ilh-in'.      It  is' ha-'d  lines  on  us,  Geoff."      Hi. 

did  not' seem 'to  see  U;" tie  was  much  too  satisfied  with  his  own  • 

biliii 

CVitainly  on  a  hot,  Blowing  July  afternoon  nothing  (ouldbc  j 
anter  than  the  leafy  walk  leading  to  the  rosery  and  terrace,  and  the 
cool,  shady  seats  under  the  big  elms  on  the  hwu.     Then  little 

under  covering,  and  nooks  and  corners  where  flirtations  could  he 
carried  on.     Indeed,  there  \vas  a  low  bench,  undei  arch, 

that  the  Chudleigh  girls  had  christened  the  Lovers'  Dower,  because 
more  than  one  happy  match  had  been  finally  cemented  there.  It  must 
be  owned  chaperones  found  their  task  of  watching  over  their  young 
charges  as  difficult  as  the  perplexed  hen  who  .sees  her  web-1'ooted 

U)  the  farm-yard  pond.     For,  alas!  her  disconsolate  clucking 
without  avail,  as  the  downy  rebels  swim  away  from  their  t'o- 
Elderly  ladies  are  not  fond  of  exertion,  especially  on  a  hot  afternoon  in 
the  dog-days;  and  a  seat  in  the  shade  where  they  can  watch  the  tennis, 
or  a  corner  in  the  cool  dining-room,  where  ices  and  claret-cup  and  big 
juicy  strawberries  were  always  to  be  procured,  seemed  far  more  d 
ble  than  pacing  the  shrubberies  in  search  of  some  runaway  daughter, 
who  was,  perhaps,  at  that  moment  enduring  the  tropical  heat  of  the 
hot-houses,  or  visiting  the  puppies  in  the  stable-yard  or  the  baity  at  the 
gardener's  house,  or  perhaps  had  even  strayed  into  the  studio— any- 
where, to  be  out  of  reach  of  the  maternal  eyes.     "  Why,"  as  one 
aggrieved  matron  complained,  "  you  might  as  well  hunt  for  a  needle  in 
a  hay-loft  as  try  and  find  any  one  at  the  Witchens." 

"  I  suppose  it  is  for  Miss  Julia  you  are  looking,"  observed  Bernard, 
sympathetically,  as  he  overheard  this  little  speech.  "  Let  me  go  and 
find  her  for  you,  Mrs.  Merrinian.  I  think  I  saw  her  with  Debenham 
on  the  terrace,"  but  the  young  scapegrace  did  not  add  that  that  was 
half  an  hour  ago,  and  that  at  that  moment  they  were  in  the  west  win- 
dow of  the  studio;  of  course  they  were  not  on  the  terrace,  and  of 
course  poor  Mrs.  Merriman  had  to  chafe  inwardly  for  the  next  hour. 

"  Is  it  late— do  you  mean  that  the  carriage  is  really  lure,  mam 
observes  Julia,  innocently,   when  she  rejoins   her  aggrieved   mother. 
"  Captain  Debenham  has  been  taking  me  all  through  the  hot-hou 
the  ferns  and  flowers  are  so  delicious!" 

"  Awfully  pretty,  I  assure  you.     I  have  had  quite  a  grand  time,  Mrs. 
Mcrriuian.     Miss  Julia  knows  a  lot  about  those  son   of  thing 
beats  me  hollow  there."     Captain  Debcnham  steals  a  look  al  his  prctly 
companion  as  lie  speaks,  but  Mrs.  Merriman  is  not  so  easily  pacified; 
she  cast  rather  a  withering  glance  at  the  handsome  young  oli; 
asks  Geoffrey  to  see  her  to  her  carriage.     Poor  Mrs.  Merriman!  she  has 
i  to  rue  these  Saturdays;  for  the  next  year  Julia  married  ( 'aptain 
Debenham,  and  crossed  the  ocean  with  him  as  checi  fully  as  the  lien's 
youngest  duckling  crossed  the  pond.     "  Chuck,  ch'ick,"  cries  the  poor 
little  brown  hen. 

"  Julia,  Captain  Debcnham  has  nothing  but  his  pay.     You  will  be  a 
;'ile  woman   if  you   marry  him;"  but    Mrs.    Merriman   might  as 
well   have  held  her  pea(-e.      What   girl  cares  about  pro- 
wh'-u  >ln-  wants  to  marry  the  n  !  dim- 

cullies — plenty  of  children — troubles  of  all  kind;  but  it  may  be  do 
Whether  either  of  th<:  i  .Mrs.  Chudleigh's  Satur<; 

After  all,  very  little  wutislies  young  people— plenty  of  ,-jpacc,  sunshine, 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  103 

a  smooth  tennis  ground,  and  a  liberal  intermixing  of  the  sexes,  will 
make  most  healthy  young  folks  happy. 

The  Chudleighs  made  no  special  effort  to  entertain  their  friends;  they 
introduced  the  pleasantest  young  men  they  could  find  to  the  nicest 
girls,  without  keeping  them  for  themselves,  for  even  Bee  would  be  as 
unselfish  as  Pauline  in  that  respect.  Geoffrey  made  up  the  tennis  sets, 
and  there  were  bowls  for  any  one  who  cared  for  that  antiquated  game, 
but  beyond  this  they  took  no  further  trouble. 

Every  one  knew  tea  and  coffee  and  claret-cup  and  most  delicious 
fruits  were  always  to  be  had  in  the  big  dining-room;  the  morning-room 
and  the  drawing- room  were  also  pleasant  resorts  for  quiet  conversation, 
and  now  and  then,  but  not  always,  the  studio  was  open.  As  a  rule, 
Launcelot  preferred  only  admitting  one  or  two  favorites,  and  no  one 
knew  how  Captain  Pebenham  had  contrived  to  smuggle  Miss  Mcrriman 
into  the  west  window.  But  what  Bee  loved  above  all  tilings  \vas  to  plan 
a  delicious  surprise  for  her  friends;  more  than  once  during  the  season, 
the  Winibork'y  band  had  been  stationed  in  the  glass  anteroom  leading 
to  the  studio,  and  the  visitors'  ears  had  been  regaled  with  a  choice  pro- 
gramme of  operatic  music. 

On  such  occasions  Bee  and  Pauline  would  drop  hints  to  a  favored 
few  that  a  cold  collation  would  be  served  at  eight,  and  that  there  would 
be  an  impromptu  dance  in  the  hall,  which  was  very  suitable  to  the  pur- 
pose. Sometimes  these  hints  came  beforehand,  in  the  shape  of  notes: 

"  We  have  ordered  the  Wimberley  band  for  next  Saturday,  and  hope 
to  get  up  a  little  dance  after  supper,  so  please,  come  prepared.  We 
shall  dance  from  nine  to  eleven." 

"  Of  course  we  shall  have  the  band  for  the  first  Saturday,"  said  Bee, 
in  a  business-like  tone,  following  Launcelot  into  his  studio  that  morn- 
ing. 

"  Very  well,  my  dear." 

"  You  see  we  have  so  many  new  people  coming.  Geoffrey  is  going 
to  ask  lots  of  men.  He  declares  he  shall  put  from  four  to  eleven  on 
the  card  mother  sends  to  his  friends.  He  has  actually  written  in  the 
corner  of  several  cards.  '  Tennis  at  four;  feed  at  eight;  dancing  nine  to 
eleven/  It  is  so  absurd  of  him,  but  he  declares  all  his  friends  will  un- 
derstand." 

"  Some  of  them  will  be  very  much  obliged  to  Geoffrey  for  the  hint. 
No  doubt  they  will  arrive  just  in  time  for  the  feed." 

"  Oh,  no,  Launce;  that  would  be  too  shabby.  Of  course  we  mean 
people  like  the  Hayters  and  Pierrepoints  to  go  as  usual,  at  seven.  I 
have  told  Feu  wick  they  are  not  to  begin  to  lay  the  table  until  a  quarter 
past.  We  shall  have  cleared  away  all  the  people  we  don't  want  by  that 
time." 

"  Well,  my  dear,  you  and  Geoffrey  can  do  as  you  think  best.  Make 
your  selection  and  be  happy;  only  don't  offend  people.'' 

"  Oh,  we  shall  be  very  careful,"  returned  the  young  diplomatist. 
"We  only  want  our  intimate  friends  to  remain.  We  can't  make  the 
thing  too  big;  a  garden-party  can  be  as  large  as  you  like,  but  an  im- 
promptu dance  is  quite  another  thing,  and  we  do  not  want  more  than 
thirty  to  sit  down." 

"I  should  think  Fen  wick  would  be  content  with  a  less  number. 
You  must  recollect  Madella  does  not  like  the  servants  to  be  overworked; 
and  she  has  the  good  old-fashioned  notions  about  Sunday." 

"  Oh,  of  course,  we  all  know  mother's  opinions  on  that  point,"  re- 
turned Bee,  impatiently;  "  that  is  why  we  stop  dancing  at  eleven— 


104  ONLY     TIIK  I'SS. 

hours  will  be  ample  for  Fenwick  and  Orson  to  clear  away:  and  yo« 
nerd  not  trouble  about    Fen  wick.  I.aunce,  for  lie  enjoys   the    l>u 
much  as  \ve  do." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  it:  but.  Bee,  one  word  before  you  go— ha 
the  Maxwells  to  remain?" 

"  Well,  no;  it  would  not  do  the  lirst  time;  they  have  never  even  called 
here." 

ither  have  the  Ilamblyns,  my  dear,  but  I  suppose  Mr.  llamblyn 
is  to  stay  for  the  dunce." 

••  V(>:  but,  Luuncc,  Nora  is  to  remain  the  week,  so  of  com 
brother  would  not  go  away;  they  would  think  it  so  strange." 

"  Well,  never  mind  that;  let  Geoffrey  write  a  little  note  to  Doctor 
Maxwell— he  tells  me  he  is  a  nice  fellow — and  inform  him  of  the  pro- 
gramme." 

"Very  well;"  but  Bee  did  not  seem  pleased.  "That  will  make 
thirty-two,  including  ourselves." 

"  And  Miss  Rossiter?" 

"  Oh,  of  course  Miss  Rossiter." 

"  You  don't  want  me  to  write  to  any  men,  I  hope." 

"  Not  this  time,  thank  you;  we  don't  want  to  overdo  things." 

"  All  right;  what  pleases  you  pleases  me.  I  did  try  to  get  Thorpe, 
but  he  is  going  down  to  the  Isle  of  Wight.  He  has  half  promised  to 
look  in  on  one  of  our  Saturdays. ' ' 

"  Of  course  we  are  always  very  glad  to  see  any  of  your  friends, 
Launce  dear,"  observed  Bee,  with  the  air  of  a  princess,  "  but  mother 
and  I  think  that  it  would  be  better  to  ask  Mr.  Thorpe  to  dinner  first. 
You  see,  his  position  is  a  little  peculiar,  but  we  all  want  to  know  him," 
she,  added,  heartily,  as  her  brother  seemed  rather  disturbed  at  this  re- 
mark. 

"  I  think  we  all  ought  to  try  and  cheer  him  up,  poor  fellow,  Tor  I  am 
afraid  he  has  been  hardly  used,"  and  then  he  made  up  his  mind  that 
on  the  very  first  opportunity  he  would  ask  Mr.  Thorpe  to  dinner. 

"  I  shall  want  to  show  him  that  picture;  it  will  certainly  be  my  best," 
he  thought,  when  Bee  at  last  left  him  to  his  own  reflections. 

Launcelot  worked  steadily  at  his  picture  the  following  Saturday  after- 
noon, but  every  now  and  then  he  stole  a  glance  from  the  west  window. 
\v  Bernard  cross  the  lawn  in  his  flannels,  bent  on  tennis;  then 
Bee  in  her  white  gown  and  pretty,  shady  hat,  accompanied  by  (Jcoffrcy; 
then  he  heard  heavy  footsteps  in  the  anteroom,  and  was  soon  made 
aware  that  the  band  had  arrived,  and  then  he  began  leisurely  putting 
away  this  things. 

But  he  (lid  not  hurry  himself,  though  gay  groups  of  young  people 
wcrr  < •)')— ing  and  recroseing  the  wide  lawn,  and  already  the  tennis  ,-H, 
wen-  formed  and  in  full  play.  For  a  little  while  it  pleated  him  to 
recon noiter  the  scene  from  the  distance. 

"  That  is  Miss  Ilamblyn,  I  suppose,"  he  said  to  himself,  as  a  I;, I! 
girl  in  black  passed  at  that  moment  with  Bee;  a  young  man  with  a 
dark  mustache  was  escorting  them,  and  the  three  seemed  very  happy. 

A  minute  afterward   Pauline  appeared,    with  a  very   quiet  ln< 
•:mg   lady  was  somewhat  high-shouldered  ami 
They  were  followed  by  Mrs.  Chudleigh,  who  wa 

i  and  moved  with   the  air  of  a  duchess;  she  wa^  hold- 
ing  Dnssie's   hand,  and   talking  with  her  accustomed  graci« 
looking  young  man  whu  walked  bc-idc  her. 

"Isuppo.se  that  is   Doctor  Maxwell,"   thought  Launcelot,  and  ho 


OHLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  105 

stepped  out  through  the  window,  taking  care  to  lower  the  sash  when 
he  reached  the  other  side,  for  the  studio,  with  its  unfinished  picture, 
was  not  on  view  this  afternoon. 

Dossie  dropped  her  aunt's  hand  and  ran  joyously  to  meet  him.  As 
Launcelot  looked  at  her,  he  wondered  what  Jack  would  have  said  at 
'the  transformation. 

The  shabby  child  in  the  little  gray  cloak  and  hood  had  changed  into 
a  daintily  dressed  little  lady.  Dossic's  pretty  white  frock,  with  its  lace 
and  embroidery,  and  tastefully  trimmed  hat,  just  suited  her.  Her  fair 
hair  was  smooth  and  shining;  a  little  pink  color  tinged  her  pale  cheeks. 
"  Oh,  I  am  so  glad  you  have  come!"  she  said,  clinging  to  him  affection- 
ately. "  It  is  all  so  gay  and  beautiful— only  we  wanted  you." 

"We  always  want  him,  do  we  not,  Dossie?"  observed  Mrs.  Chud- 
leigh,  who  had  followed  the  child  and  overheard  this.  "  Doctor  Max- 
well, I  must  introduce  you  to  my  eldest  son."  And  then  the  two  men 
shook  hands. 

Dr.  Maxwell  was  about  Launcelpt's  age.  He  was  not  particularly 
good-looking;  he  was  dark-complexioned,  and  his  features  were  marked 
and  irregular,  but  he  had  a  pleasant  manner  and  seemed  gentlemanly 
and  agreeable. 

Launcelot  was  decidedly  prepossessed  in  his  favor;  he  liked  his 
thoughtful,  intelligent  expression.  But  before  they  had  exchanged 
many  sentences  together  Pauline  and  her  companion  joined  them. 

"  This  is  Miss  Maxwell,  Launce,"  she  said,  touching  her  brother  on 
the  arm  to  attract  his  attention.  Launcelot  looked  up  and  saw  the 
young  lady  with  the  eyeglasses. 

Miss  Maxwell  was  very  like  hex  brother;  they  had  both  the  same  high 
cheek-bones  and  dark  complexion.  Bee  was  right;  she  was  certainly  a 
plain  -girl,  but  she  looked  very  animated  and  had  a  bright  smile,  and 
seemed  good-natured  and  sensible. 

She  accosted  Launcelot  very  frankly  as  he  shook  hands  with  her. 

"  I  have  heard  a  good  deal  about  your  beautiful  studio,  Mr.  Chud- 
leigh.  I  was  just  asking  your  sister  if  you  ever  admitted  strangers." 

"  Oh,  yes,  sometimes.  My  friends  are  often  invited  to  five  o'clock 
tea  when  I  have  a  picture  on  view.  I  am  not  throwing  it  open  this 
afternoon,  as  there  is  nothing  of  interest  to  exhibit;  but  if  you  care  to 
see  it — just  the  room,  I  mean — you  are  welcome  to  do  so." 

"  Oh,  thank  you;  how  very  kind!"  And  Miss  Maxwell  looked  much 
pleased;  and  then  Launcelot  opened  the  window  again,  and  they  all 
followed  him  in. 

A  screen  had  been  drawn  before  the  unfinished  picture,  for  Launcelot 
had  already  decided  that  no  outsider  but  his  friend  Mr.  Thorpe  should 
be  invited  to  inspect  it;  so  all  Pauline's  coaxing  to  allow  them  one  peep 
was  utterly  unavailing. 

"  I  told  you  there  would-  be  nothing  to  interest  you,"  he  observed  to 
Miss  Maxwell,  who  was  looking  about  her  with  great  interest,  but  she 
denied  this  with  energy. 

"  I  think  it  all  interesting,"  she  returned,  with  much  vivacity.  "  It 
i<  a  lovely  room,  is  it  not,  Hedley?  and  so  beautifully  furnished.  Is 
this  where  you  work,  and  are  all  those  sketches  yours?"  and  then 
Launcelot  good-naturedly  opened  one  of  his  portfolios. 

"  If  you  could  only  have  seen  his  last  picture,"  observed  Pauline, 
regretfully;  "  but  it  is  sold:  the  subject  was  taken  from  those  words  of 
Kingsley,  '  For  men  must  work,  and  women  must  weep. '  I  think  it 


106  OXLT    TTTE     COY1 

\va*  the  best  ho  ever  painted.     Mother  was  so  fond  of  it  she  could  not 
bear  parting  with  it." 

Launcelot   looked   up  quickly.     "  Was  that  true,  Madella?  hud  you 
really  a  fancy  for  it?    \YliT  did  not  some  one  tell  me?"  in  rather  a 
»!'  course,  I  would  not  have  sold  it." 

"  My  dear  Launce,"  and  Mrs.  Chudleigh  blushed  like  a  girl,  "  what 
extravagant  generosity!  Do  you  think  I  would  have  lei  you  lose  live 
hundred  pounds  just  to  gratify  mv  whim?  Of  course  it  was  a  beautiful 
picture;  the  face  of  that  fisherman's  wife  was  ao  pathetic.  Don't  you 
lemember,  Pauline,  how  we  all  admired  that  figure,  with  the  > 
shining  behind  it?" 

5Tes,  mother;  and  we  all  said  it  was  Launcelot's  best  picture.     I 
thought.  Colonel  Evans  showred  his  taste  in  buying  it." 

"  l>ut  he  would  not  have  had  it  if  you  had  only  told  me  this  before," 
and  a  cloud  crossed  Launcelot's  face.    "  I  was  not  in  need  of  the  money, 
and  it  might  have  been  hanging  in  Madella's  morning- room  at  the 
ent  moment." 

"  My  dear  boy,"  returned  Mrs.  Chudleigh,  in  her  soft,  cooing  v 
and  then  she  turned  to  Dr.  Maxwell  with  a  smile.     "  I  am  afraid  you 
will  think  me  a  spoiled  woman;  I  hardly  dare  express  a  wish  for  fear 
my  son  should  gratify  it,"  and  she  looked  very  happy  as  she  made  this 
little  speech. 

"Mr.  Chudleigh  is  a  fortunate  man;  most  of  us  are  debarred  from 
this  sort  of  luxury,"  returned  Dr.  Maxwell,  gravely.  "  He  speaks  of 
live  hundred  pounds  as  lightly  as  some  of  us  would  speak  of  five  hun- 
dred pence." 

"  Not  at  all,"  was  the  amused  answer.  "  I  own  it  is  a  very  useful 
sum;  it  came  in  handy  for  the  Mentone  expenses,  eh,  Pauline?  By  the 
bye.  Doctor  Maxwell"  there  was  a  question  I  meant  to  ask  you':  my 
Hstrr  tells  me  you  have  taken  the  Bridge  House  at  Riversleigfa.  I 
wonder  if  you  have  come  across  a  friend  of  mine,  who  is  your  near 
neighbor,  Mr.  Thorpe?" 

<v  Thorpe — no — at  least  he  is  not  on  my  list  of  patients,  and  1  have 
had  no  time  yet  to  make  any  unprofessional  acquaintances.  A  frie«il 
of  yours,  you  say?" 

"  Yes;  he  lives  about  a  stone's  throw  from  Bridge  House,  at  > 
Priory  Road;  his  sister  live.s  with  him;  he  is  the  editor  of  the  '  Imperial 
Review,'  and  is  a  thoroughly  nice  fellow.     His  sister  is  nice,  too,  only 
strong-minded;  she  belongs  to  some  sort  of  charity  organization  society, 
and  does  an  immense  deal  of  good." 

"  Thorpe — no,  I  have  never  met  him." 

"  I  wish  you  would  call  upon  him.  He  is  a  new-comer,  too:  he  used 
to  live  at  Button.  Unfortunate  domestic  circumstances  have  made  him 
.somewhat  of  a  recluse,  but  I  want  to  rouse  him  up  a  bit."  Then  Dr. 
Maxwell  saiil  at,  once  that  he  would  call,  and  as  Launcelot  took  him  to 
another  part  of  the  room  to  show  him  some  antique  pottery,  they  talked 
r  in  a  low  tone. 

Mrs.  Chuiileiirh  had  seen  some  fresh  guests  enter  the  garden,  so  she 
hastened  back  to  her  duties  and  took  Dossie  with  her,  and  the  tw« 
left  standing  by  the  portfolio. 
Maxwell  looked  at  the  sketches  a  little  absently. 

"  Did  you  see  Hedley's  fa<  <  !  at  last,  rather  abruptly,  "  when 

your  brother  spoke  about  keeping  thai  picture  for  your  mother?     Ho 

d   quite  touched,  and  yi-t    I   could   see  he  was  pained  to...      Your 

brother  is  very  generous,  but  I  think  Bedley  would  be  trenerous  too  if 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  107 

he  could  afford  to  be— he  always  feels  it  so  hard  to  be  too  poor  to  give 
us  the  things  we  want." 

"But  you  are  not  really  poor,  Charlotte?"  for  the  girls  had  grown 
very  intimate  during  those  three  weeks  of  unrestrained  intercourse,  and 
already  called  each  other  by  their  Christian  names,  after  the  fashion  of 
girls.  "  Bee  said  how  nice  your  house  was  when  we  called;  it  all  looked 
so  comfortable." 

"  We  are  certainly  not  rich,"  returned  Miss  Maxwell,  with  the 
sturdy  honesty  that  was  her  distinguishing  trait.  "  You  must  not 
judge  by  the  relics  of  past  grandeur;  you  admired  our  old  oak  furniture, 
1  remember.  Hedley  is  heavily  burdened  for  so  young  a  man.  He 
has  been  just  able  to  buy  this  partnership,  but  for  some  years  his  in- 
come will  be  very  small;  he  has  to  make  his  way,  and  he  has  four 
women  on  his  hands.  It  does  seem  so  hard,  for,  of  course,  at  his  age 
men  would  be  thinking  of  settling  down— getting  married  I  mean;  but 
of  course,  as  Hedley  says,  there  is  no  possibility  of  that  now." 

"  I  hope  it  is  not  a  great  disappointment,"  replied  Pauline,  rather 
vaguely,  and  not  knowing  exactly  what  she  was  expected  to 

"Oh,  there  was  no  special  lady  in  the  case,"  returned  Charlotte, 
laughingly;  "  at  least,  if  there  were,  lledley  has  been  very  close  about 
it;  only,  don't  you  see,  most  men  prefer  having  a  wife  to  living  unmar- 
riedf  and  it  does  seem  such  a  pity  that  we  should  all  be  burdening  him 
in  this  way.  If  I  could  only  help  him;  but  how  could  they  manage 
at  home  without  me?" 

"  I  am  sure  you  help  him  enough  as  it  is,"  answered  Pauline,  eager- 
ly. "  1  can  not  make  out  how  you  find  time  for  all  you  do,  the  house- 
keeping and  book-keeping,  and  all  that  reading  aloud." 

"Oh,  I  like  to  be  busy,"  was  the  cheerful  retort;  "it  makes  m« 
miserable  to  be  idle.  Sometimes  when  Sophy  and  Caroline  send  me  a 
long  list  of  commissions  I  get  a  little  overwhelmed,  but  that  is  not 
often.  If  one  can  not  be  ornamental,  one  may  at  least  be  useful," 
finished  Charlotte,  contentedly,  "and  I  am  vain  enough  to  think  that 
neither  mother  nor  Hedley  could  spare  me;':  and  at'lhis  moment  the 
two  gentlemen  rejoined  them,  and  the  conversation  became  more  gen- 
eral. 

CHAPTER   XVII. 

"ONLY  SYBIL'S  GOVERNESS." 

His  face  was  that  of  doubtful  kind, 
That  wins  the  eye  but  not  the  mind. 

SCOTT. 

My  thoughts  are  my  own. 

Anon. 

WHEN  Launcelot  had  done  the  honors  of  the  studio  thoroughly,  and 
had  exhibited  his  Roman  and  Etruscan  curiosities,  in  which  his  visitors 
took  an  intelligent  interest,  he  suggested  that  they  should  join  the  other 
guests  on  the  lawn. 

"  Yes,  indeed.  I  think  that  we  have  taken  up  far  too  much  of  your 
valuable  time  already,"  returned  Miss  Maxwell  in  her  straightforward 
way,  "  but  you  have  given  us  a  great  deal  of  pleasure." 

"  Then  I  am  already  repaid,"  was  the  courteous  answer;  ftnd  at  this 
moment  they  encountered  the  same  little  group  that  had  passed  the 
window  some  time  ago.  Bee  gave  an  offended  toss  of  her  head  when 
she  s>aw  her  brother. 


108  ONLY     Till:     <.n\n;XESS. 

"  Ilere  you  are  at  last,  Launcelot;  every  one  lias  been  inquiring  after 
you.  Where  have  you  been  all  this  time?  I  have  been  wanting  to  in- 
troduce you  to  my  friend  -Miss  llamblyn." 

"I  do  not  think  that  we  require  an  introduction,"  returned  that 
young  lady,  graciously,  and  her  bright  eyes  took  quiet  stock  of  the  slim, 
young-looking  man  before  her— the  rich,  eccentric  Launcelot  Chudleigh, 
of  whom  she  had  heard  so  much — the  master  of  this  beautiful  1. 
Why,  he  was  years  older  than  his  brother  Geoffrey,  and  yet  he  looked 
quite  boyish  and  insignificant;  and  Miss  llamblyn,  who  was  a  very 
dignified  person,  felt  decidedly  disappointed,  for  she  liked  tall,  line- 
booking  men. 

"  I  have  heard  a  great  deal  about  Miss  Hamblyn,"  returned  Launce- 
lot,  with  polite  sincerity.  "  This  is  your  brother,  I  suppose?"  turning 
to  a  singularly  handsome  young  man,  who  was  holding  Bee's  sun- 
shade. Probably  there  was  some  admixture  of  foreign  blood  in  the 
llamblyn  family,  for  Oscar  had  the  olive  complexion  and  dark  liquid 
that  belong  to  the  south.  As  Launcelot  noticed  the  black  silky 
mustache  and  faultless  attire  he  uttered  an  inward  groan.  "  He  ou^ht 
to  be  labeled  'Dangerous,'"  he  muttered.  "What  was  Madelhi 
thinking  about,  allowing  such  a  good-looking  fellow  to  dance  attend- 
ance on  Bee?" 

Perfectly  unconscious  of  this  criticism,  Mr.  Hamblyn  addressed  his 
host  with  the  easy,  well-bred  manners  of  a  man  of  the  world. 

"  It  is  really  very  good  of  you  to  allow  us  to  come  in  this  informal 
way,  Mr.  Chudleigh.  We  saw  a  great  deal  of  your  mother  and  sisters 
at  Mentone.  That  is  the  best  of  life  abroad,  one  gets  to  know  people  so 
intimately.  Why,  a  whole  season  in  town  would  not  have  made  us  so 
well  acquainted  with  each  other."  Mr.  Hamblyn  glanced  at  Bee  as  he 
spoke,  and  Lauucelot  was  vexed  to  see  how  this  little  remark,  so  care- 
lessly uttered,  seemed  to  heighten  her  color. 

"  I  don't  believe  people  ever  know  each  other  in  society, "  he  returned, 
rather  more  dogmatically  than  usual;  "  one  only  skims  over  the  surface 
somehow. ' ' 

"  Ah,  you  are  a  philosopher, "  observed  Miss  Hamblyn,  in  her  smooth, 
flexible  voice;  and  then  it  was  by  a  dexterous  little  movement  on  her 
part  the  group  broke  up,  and  Launcelot  found  himself  pacing  the 
shrubberies  with  Miss  Hamblyn  beside  him,  while  Bee  and  her  cavalier 
slowly  followed  them.  Pauline  and  the  Maxwells  had  disappeared,  and 
later  on  he  saw  them  in  the  distance  with  Miss  Rossiter. 

Strange  to  say,  Launcelot  felt  a  little  impatience  in  his  position.     I  Ie 
was  not  in  the  mood  for  strangers,  and  he  found  the  society  of  this  self 
-ed  and  talkative  young  lady  rather  irksome  than  otherwise. 

For  once  he  was  inclined  to  be  captious  and  fault-finding.  He  allowed 
that  Miss  Hamblyn  was  a  striking-looking  girl,  that  she  had  a  decided 
claim  to  good  looks;  she  had  a  fine  complexion,  good  features,  though  a 
little  prononce;  a  very  graceful  figure  and  lady-like  carriage;  she  di 
well,  walked  well,  and  was  iluent  and  easy  in  speech.  Nevertheless, 
she  bored  him;  and  yet  he  could  not  find  out  the  reason. 

la  very  earthly,"  he  thought;  but  then  many  charming  women 
are  earthly.  Miss  Rossiter  was  earthly,  or  whatever  he  meant  by  that 
vague  expression.  "  She  is  too  decided  and  opinionative  for  her 

•  •nt   <m.  but   certain!  .\\vell  was  quite  as  decided,  and  he 

hud  not  been  bored  by  her.      "  She  is  cold  and  self  -satisfied,  she  thinks 

guch  an  awi'iK  lot  of  herself,"  iini.-liud  tin's  very  churlish  young  man. 

>  i -In  me  to  pay  her  attention  and  that  sort  of  thing,  but  then 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  109 

I  never  come  up  to  people's  expectations. "  But  notwithstanding  this 
under-current  of  opposition,  he  made  himself  so  agreeable  that  Miss 
Hamblyn  revoked  her  previous  opinion. 

"Mr.  Chudleigh  was  quite  out  of  the  common;  he  was  really  very 
interesting-looking;  there  was  something  artistic  about  him."  Yes,  she 
liked  him  very  much,  as  she  assured  Bee  afterward. 

"  Oh,  every  one  likes  Launce,"  returned  Bee,  who  had  not  a  doubt 
upon  this  subject.  "  Half  the  girls  are  in  love  with  him.  only  he  never 
gives,  them  any  encouragement.  He  thinks  flirting  nonsentfe. " 

"He  is  perfectly  right.  1  respect  him  for  that,"  replied  Miss 
Hamblyn,  seriously;  and  she  meant  what  she  said.  Both  she  and  her 
brother  were  adepts  in  the  art;  but  nothing  would  have  displeased  her 
more  than  any  attempt  on  Launcelot's  part  to  flirt  with  her.  The 
change  in  their  circumstances  made  her  anxious  to  settle,  and  she  felt 
all  such  frivolities  were  out  of  the  question  now,  and  that  she  must  take 
more  serious  views  of  life. 

"And  I  should  leave  it  off  too,  if  I  were  you,  Oscar,"  she  said, 
rather  gravely,  that  very  night,  as  they  stood  and  watched  Launcelot 
and  Bee  waltzing  together.  "  It  is  not  wise  to  have  two  strings  to  your 
bow,  at  least." 

"Perhaps  you'll  be  good  enough  to  mind  your  own  business  for 
once, 'Nora,"  he  had  returned,  rather  sulkily;  for  Oscar  had  a  temper, 
and  the  Ilamblyns  were  not  always  civil  to  each  other.  But  his  sister 
did  not  seem  to  mind  this  rough  answer;  she  only  laughed  and  patted 
his  shoulder. 

"  Poor  boy,  is  he  so  badly  hit?"  she  said.  "  Well,  she  is  very  pretty 
and  I  can't  rind  fault  with  your  taste." 

"  Pshaw!"  he  muttered,  ungraciously,  and  then  he  pulled  his  mus- 
tache rather  gloomily  as  his  eyes  followed  the  slight,  girlish  figure. 
When  they  had  finished  the  dance  he  hurried  up  to  her. 

"  The  next  is  ours;  have  you  forgotten?"  he  said,  looking  rather  too 
intently  at  her  pretty,  flushed  face;  but  Bee  dropped  her  eyelids  and  an- 
swered, demurely,  "Oh,  no,  I  have  not  forgotten,  but  "I  am  a  little 
tired,  I  think.  Launce  waltzes  deliciously— but  I  shall  soon  be  rested," 
and  she  made  no  objection  when  Mr.  Hamblyu  proposed  a  seat  in  the 
cool,  dimly  lighted  drawing-room;  certainly  Oscar  Hamblyn  was  an 
adept  in  the  dangerous  art. 

Launcelot  was  not  able  to  sustain  an  unbroken  conversation  with  Miss 
llarnblyn;  every  few  minutes  he  had  to  stop  and  speak  to  people,  and 
to  answer  all  sorts  of  inquiries.  He  apologized  at  last. 

"  This  is  very  stupid  for  you,"  he  said,  in  his  pleasant  way;  "  you 
see  all  these  good  folk  are  my  guests,  and  1  have  not  spoken  to  them 
yet.  I  am  afraid  I  must  leave  you  and  do  the  civil.  Where  is  Geoffrey? 
Oh,  I  see  he  is  organizing  another  set  for  tennis;  you  dp  not  play  tennis, 
I  suppose?"  looking  down  at  her  black  dress.  "  Will  you  sit  here  in 
the  shade  and  watch  them — and— oh,  there  goes  Oliver;  I  must  intro- 
duce him  to  you:  Oliver  Grayling,  a  friend  of  mine;  capital  fellow,  im- 
mensely rich — nothing  on  earth  to  do  with  his  money, "  and  here  Launce- 
lot dived  dexterously  between  the  tennis-players  and  spectators,  and 
tapped  Mr.  Grayling  smartly  on  the  shoulder. 

Miss  Hamblyn  received  him  graciously;  it  washer  role  to  be  gracious. 
"  It  is  a  mistake  to  snub  people,"  as  she  said,  but  in  her  heart  she  woukl 
rather  have  retained  Launcelot.  Mr.  Grayling  might  be  rich— why  on 
earth  had  Launcelot  mentioned  that  little  fact? — but  he  was  bald,  rather 
looking,  forty  at  least,  and  wore  spectacles,  and  more  nervous 


110  ONLY    THE    GOYERNESS. 

than  amusing.     Nevertheless,  Miss  Ilamblyn  kindly  took  him  In  hand, 
and  made  the  best  of  him;  for  she  also  was  a  philosopher,  and  had  a 
amount  of  prudence  and  foresight  for  a  girl  of  two  -ami-twenty. 

Launcelot  walked  away  very  fast  when  he  had  regained  his  freedom. 

"  I  must  Confess  I  was  bored,"  he  said  to  himself,  with  some  surprise 
at  the  novelty  of  the  sensation;  and  then  his  eyes  brightened  and  hia 
space  quickened,  for  there  was  Miss  Rossiter  in  her  yellow  gown 
it  yellow,  though,  or  only  pale  golden  brown?— hurrying  on  before  him 
in  the  direction  of  the  terrace. 

"  Why  so  fast?"  he  called  out;  and  then  she  stopped  and  waited  for 
him  to  come  up  with  her. 

"  Well,  what  is  the  matter?"  he  asked,  quietly,  for  he  saw  she  looked 
hot  and  disturbed,  and  did  not  smile  at  him  in  her  old  way. 

"Oh.  I  was  onl}' looking  for  my  children/'   she  returned,  knitting 
jer  brows  as  though  she  were  vexed.     "  I  have  lost  them,  and  it  is  all 
that  tiresome  Mr.  Hamblyn's  fault.     I  wanted  DossiV  to  have  son 
— Mrs.  Chudleigh  says  she  looks  tired — and  Mr.  Ilamblyn  would  detain 
me,  and  now  they  are  out  of  sight." 

"  I  think  Hamblyn  was  with  Bee;  I  saw  him  with  her  just  now." 

"  Oh,  he  has  been  with  her  most  of  the  afternoon,  but  he  has  been  in- 
flicting his  company  on  me  for  all  that.  I  am  sure  I  wish  Beatrix  would 
keep  him  to  herself;  he  is  dreadfully  stupid." 

"  Miss  Rossiter,  I  am  afraid — yes,  I  really  am  afraid — that  you  are 
just  a  little  bit  cross." 

"  So  I  am;"  but  she  laughed  now.  "  I  wanted  to  find  Dossie  so  bad 
ly;  and  I  can't  bear  Mr.  Hamblyn." 

"  You — can't — bear — Adonis — "  with  a  pause  between  each  word. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  like  Adonises,"  was  the  pettish  answer.  "  I  don't  care; 
a  bit  about  handsome  men;  they  only  admire  themselves:  at  least,  if 
they  admire  you,  they  expect  you  to  do  it  in  return.  Of  course  he  is 
good-looking,  but  he  knows  it,  and  trades  upon  his  knowledge.  I  be- 
lieve I  hate  him  because  he  paid  so  much  attention  to  Beatrix  at  Men- 
tone.  ' ' 

"  Miss  Rossiter,"  still  more  solemnly,  "  do  you  know  you  are  letting 
the  cat  out  of  the  bag  to  Beatrix's  brother?" 

"  Oh,  that  is  nonsense;"  but  she  looked  a  little  ashamed  of  h< 
"  Of  course  you  know  there  were  plenty  of  flirtation-  going  on." 

"  I  am  sorry  to  hear  it,"  he  returned,  so  gravel}  that  Miss  KossiU-r's 
manner  changed  at  once,  and  she  looked  quite  sorry  for  her  thoughtless 
speech. 

"  I  wish  I  could  learn  to  hold  my  tongue,"  she  said,  penitently.     "  I 
always  speak  without  thinking      It  is  because  ]  am  so  sure  that  Mr. 
Ilamblyn  is  a  flirt  that  I  dislike  him  so;  why,  he  would  pay  an 
compliments  by  the  score  if  she  would  let  him,  but  Bee  is  so  in; 
that  she  will  believe  him." 

"  And  yet  she  is  a  thorough  little  woman  of  the  world,  and  tolerably 
sharp,  too;  I  have  seen  her  send  men  about  their  business  when  they 
did  not  please  her." 

.  but  if  Mr.  Ilamblyn  does  please  her?" 

"  Oh.  1  see  what  you  mean;  it  is  kind  and  friendly  of  you  to  put  us 
on  our  guard.     I  did  not  want  to  misjudge  any  one,"  but  I  shall  1 
strict  watch  over  the  young  man.      I  don't  mind  telling  you,  in  coiili- 
tlence,  that.  !  am  not  preposn-ssed  in  his  favor.      I  am  far  hctter  p  < 
with  Pauline's  new  friends." 

'odor  Maxwell  and  his  sister?  oh.  yes,  they  are  thorouirhh 


ONLY    THE    GOVEKNESS.  Ill 

like  them  so  much.  Doctor  Maxwell  is  a  most  superior  man,  and  yet 
ems  to  think  so  little  of  himself;  and  Miss  Maxwell  is  clever 
too." 

They  had  reached  the  terrace,  but  there  were  no  children  there;  so 
Rossiter  said  she  must  return  to  the  house,  and  they  sauntered 
slowly,  meeting  stray  couples  on  their  way.  To  Launcelot  this 
!he  pleasan test  part  of  the  afternoon.  His  companion  suited  him 
ly.  Her  petulant  little  speeches  amused  him;  she  was  so  frank 
.:ul  easy  in  her  manner,  so  willing  to  talk  or  to  be  silent,  so  artlessly 

.'ininunicative,  that  Launcelot  was  sorry  when  the  short  walk  was 

romplished  and  she  left  him  at  the  hall-door. 

I>ut  they  had  not  passed  unobserved.  Mr.  Hamblyn  had  just  crossed 
;\vn  to  speak  to  his  sister  as  the  two  emerged  from  the  shrubbery. 

"  \Vho  is  that  tall  woman  in  the  yellow  gown  walking  with  Chud- 
IfighV"  asked  Mr.  Grayling,  who  was  short-sighted;  he  still  kept  his 
place  beside  Miss  Hamblyn,  but  it  must  be  confessed  that  the  young 
lady  felt  a  trifle  bored. 

"  Oh,  that  is  only  the  governess,  Miss  Rossiter,"  she  returned,  care- 
lessly; and  then  in  an  under-tone  to  her  brother,  "  How  very  strange! 
I  must  say  I  wonder  at  Mr.  Chudleigh." 

"She  is  very  handsome,"  went  on  Mr.  Grayling,  in  his  fussy  way. 
"  I  was  sure  I  had  seen  her  before,  but  I  could  not  remember  her  name; 
she  looked  quite  like  a  picture  in  that  queer-colored  gown,  and  with 
that  wonderful  hair — a  very  uncommon  type  of  beauty." 

"I  do  not  admire  Miss  Rossiter,"  returned  .Miss  Hamblyn,  coldly. 
"  I  never  cared  for  red  hair." 

"  Come  now,  that  is  too  bad,  Nora,"  observed  her  brother,  with  a 
laugh.  "Miss  Rossiter's  hair  is  a  ruddy  brown; -no  one  with  eyes  in 
his  head  would  call  it  anythiug  but  beautiful." 

"Nevertheless,  it  is  not  to  my  taste,"  she  replied,  with  quiet  per- 
tinacity, "and  I  think  the  gown  hideous.  Mamma  would  never  have 
allowed  a  governess  of  ours  to  make  herself  so  conspicuous,  and  I  must 
say  1  wonder  at  Mrs.  Chudleigh,"  but  Mr.  Hamblyn  merely  laughed 
again,  and  shrugged  his  shoulders  as  he  crossed  the  lawn.  Women 
always  undervalued  each  other,  he  thought,  but  for  his  part  he  indorsed 
Mr.  Grayling's  opinion — he  thought  Miss  Rossiter  a  superb  creature; 
perhaps 'he  admired  her  all  the  more  that  she  had  repulsed  his  little  at- 
tentions and  laughed  at  his  compliments. 

"It  is  easier  to  get  on  with  the  other  one,"  he  said  to  himself,  as  he 
made  his  way  to  Bee,  who  received  him  with  a  smile  and  a  blush. 

The  afternoon  had  been  quite  a  success,  and  theije  had  not  been  a 
single  hitch  in  the  arrangements;  the  carriages  had  come  up  at  the  right 
time,  and  the  departing  guests  had  expressed  themselves  much  pleased 
with  the  entertainments.  Only  a  few  tennis- players  and  a  group  or  two 
of  young  people  were  left  on  the  wide  lawn. 

When  the  last  carriage  had  driven  off,  Bee  summoned  the  girls  up- 
stairs to  smarten  themselves  for  the  evening.  They  all  wore  cool  sum- 
mer dresses,  and  with  the  addition*  of  fresh  gloves,  and  a  few  flowers, 
they  looked  as  nice  as  possible.  Most  of  the  young  men  retired  to  the 
billiard-room,  and  Fenwick  and  his  helpers  were  exceedingly  busy  in 
the  dining-room. 

When  Bee  went  to  Miss  Hamblyn 's  room  with  some  white  stephanotis 
that  she  had  picked  for  her  she  found  her  already  dressed. 

44  Oh,  Nora,  you  ought  not  to  have  changed  your  dress,"  she  said,  a 


ONLY    T1TK    f-'OYT.RXESS. 

little  reproachfully,  for  Miss  irunblyn  won-  a  charming  demi-toilet  of 

soft  black  gauze,  trimmed  with  jet  lave;  "  it.  is  quite  against  our  rule." 

"  I  could  not  know  Mint,  my  dear,  could  I'!"  returned  lu-r  friend,  with 
n  smile,  though  she  was  perfectly  aware  of  the  fact.     "But  nothing 
'••  nicer  than  your  white  gown.    Are  those  flowers  for  me?    How 
lovely  and  how  good  of  you  to  bring  them!" 

"  Oh,  we  provide  flowers  for  all  the  girls,"  returned  Bee,  in  an  off- 
hand manner,  for  she  was  a  little  provoked  at  the  studied  elegance  of 
her  friend's  attire,  which  would  throw  them  all  in  the  shade,  but  .Miss 
Hamblyn  looked  serenely  unconscious  of  the  girl's  petulance  as  she  dre\v 
on  her'  long  white  gloves.  When  she  had  finished  she  passed  her  arm 
affectionately  through  Bee's. 

"Oscar  is  so  charmed  with  everything;  he  thinks  things  are  don« 
wilh  such  good  taste.  He  has  been  praising  you  all  up  to  i  he  skies,  and 
praise  is  not  much  in  Oscar's  line;  if  he  has  a  fault  he  is  so  terribly 
fastidious,  but  you  have  managed  to  cure  him." 

11  Who— I—    but  Bee  tried  not  to  look  pleased. 

"It  is  so  nice  to  see  him  look  happy  again,  poor  old  fellow,"  con- 
tanned  Miss  llamblyn,  with  a  sigh.  "  I  hope  you  will  let  him  come 
often,  for  it  will  do  him  so  much  good." 

"  We  shall  always  be  pleased  to  see  your  brother,  Nora;  but  I  think 
he  looks  very  well,  and  he  is  always  cheerful,"  for  Bee  was  very  mat- 
ter-of-fact, and  though  it  was  perfectly  true  that  she  found  the  society 
of  the  handsome  young  barrister  very  seductive,  she  was  not  yet  com- 
pletely under  his  influence. 

"He  is  always  cheerful  in  your  society,  my  dear,"  returned  her 
friend,  laughing;  "  but  I  am  not  so  sure  that  mother  and  I  find  him  an 
entertaining  companion,"  which  was  certainly  true,  for  the  fascinating 
Oscar  was  much  given  to  air  his  little  tempers  in  the  family  circle,  and 
the  reverses  of  fortune  and  private  difficulties  of  his  own  had  not  sweet- 
ened a  naturally  impatient  disposition.  He  was  somewhat  self-indulged, 
and  pleasure-loving  by  nature,  and  he  did  not  like  his  little  amusements 
curtailed. 

Bee  blushed  very  prettily  over  this  speech,  but  modesty  and  good 
taste  led  her  to  change  the  conversation  by  proposing  to  show  her  friend 
over  the  house,  and  as  Nora  acceded  to  this  with  much  alacrity,  they 
went  out  into  the  corridor  arm  in  arm. 

"  This  is  mother's  dressing-room,  where  she  generally  sits  in  the 
morning,"  began  Bee.  "  Launce  calls  it  the  Sanitarium,  because  all 
convalescents  pass  their  days  here;  he  thinks  it  the  nicest  room  in  the 
house." 

"  It  is  very  nice,  but  I  like  the  morning-room  better,"  observed  Nora, 
whose  critical  eye^  noticed  the  old-fashioned  furniture:  and  rather  shabby 
cretonne.  Every  other  room  at  the  Witchens  was  fitted  up  handsomely 
and  in  mo  leni  style,  but  Mrs.  Chudleigh  had  kept  for  her  own  use  the 
furniture  she  had  used  as  a  girl.  Over  the  mantel-piece  hung  the  por- 
trait of  her  husband,  a  handsome  man,  with  Launcelot's  eyes  but  with 
si  sterner  cast  of  countenance,  while  the  walls  were  covered' with  photo- 
graphs of  their  children  at  different  ages,  in  every  variety  of  style  and 
and  on  a  stand  in  one  corner  was  a  beautifully  finished  miniature 
of  a  fair-haired  girl,  the  Lily  who  had  died.  Under  this  picture  there 
was  always  a  va.se  of  ilowers. 

In   her  eliiM;  the  mother's  room  was  simply  perfect, 

nose  old  fashioned  easy-chairs,  no   much 
like  the  one  that  stood  in  the  window;  they  regarded  the  various  objects 


ONLY    THE    GOVEIINESS.  113 

round  them  as  sacred  treasures.  There  was  their  father's  writing-table, 
his  favorite  pictures,  the  watch  that  they  had  all  played  with  in  turn, 
the  beautiful  iron  casket  where  their  mother  kept  her  jewels,  and  that 
no  one  could  lift,  and  the  cabinets  of  china  with  the  lovely  old  tea-set 
out  of  which  she  had  drunk  as  a  girl. 

As  a  rule  Mrs.  Chudleigk  used  this  room  in  the  morning;  she  liked  to 
write  her  letters  undisturbed  by  the  girls'  chatter,  but  any  invalid  re- 
quiring quiet  always  found  peaceful  harborage  in  the  mother's  room. 
Even  Launcelot  would  forsake  his  beloved  studio  if  a  headache  or 
fatigue  hindered  work,  and  would  expect  his  share  of  petting.  It  was 
certain  Mrs.  Chudleigh  never  looked  happier  than  when  she  was  minis- 
tering to  her  children.  Her  one  regret  was  that  Sybil  had  outgrown  her 
babyhood,  and  was  growing  too  old  to  be  petted,  and  she  often  owned 
that  she  looked  forward  to  her  children  marrying,  that  she  might  have 
babies  in  her  armsoigain. 

"  I  think  it  is  a  lovely  room,"  returned  Bee,  a  little  hurt  at  her 
friend's  disparaging  tone;  "  we  all  like  the  dear  shabby  old  furniture. 
Mother  wanted  to  buy  a  new  American  rocking-chair  one  day  that  took 
her  fancy,  but  Launcelot  Would  not  hear  of  it.  He  said  she  might  get 
it  for  the  morning-room,  but  no  innovation  could  be  allowed  in  the 
Sanitarium." 

"  That  was  very  nice  of  him,"  returned  Miss  Hamblyn,  vaguely,  but 
in  her  own  mind  she  thought  the  rocking-chair  would  have  been  an  im- 
provement. The  Chudleighs  were  certainly  very  conservative  and 
strong  in  their  attachments;  she  must  take  care  not  to  offend  their  little 
prejudices  even  if  she  could  not  understand  them.  She  was  very  fond 
of  her  own  mother,  a  gay,  handsome  woman,  but  she  never  expected 
much  outward  demonstration  of  affection  from  her.  Lady  Hamblyn 
was  very  proud  of  her  children  and  indulged  them  to  their  own  detri- 
ment, but  she  never  petted  them;  she  was  ambitious  and  planned  for 
their  worldly  advancement,  but  she  could  not  have  effaced  herself  for 
their  sakcs  as  Mrs.  Chudleigh  could;  neither  did  her  children  treat  her 
with  the  same  reverence.  The  boys  squabbled  and  fought  with  each 
other  in  her  presence,  and  Nora  would  tell  her  to  her  face  that  she  was 
wrong.  The  girl's  bringing  up  had  been  altogether  a  mistake:  she  had 
been  spoiled  as  a  child,  and  then  as  a  girl  kept  rather  too  strictly;  no 
high  standaritof  duty  had  been  placed  before  her.  To  be  accomplished, 
to  make  the  best  of  her  good  looks,  to  dance  well,  and  to  make  a  satis- 
factory marriage— satisfactory,  that  is,  in  a  worldly  point  of  view — had 
been  pointed  out  as  her  most  serious  duties.  There  had  been  no  at- 
tempt to  check  a  naturally  imperious  temper,  or  the  smooth  selfishness 
that  underlay  her  character;  so  it  was  no  wonder  the  poor  girl  grew  up 
as  worldly  minded  and  pleasure-loving  as  her  mother. 

When  they  had  reached  the  school-room  there  were  a  few  words  said 
on  the  subject  of  Miss  Rossiter.  Nora  had  praised  this  room  cordially, 
and  had  said  that  in  her  opinion  Miss  Rossiter  was  a  very  lucky  person, 
"  for  you  all  make  so  much  of  her,  you  know,"  she  added,  in  a  voice 
that  somehow  conveyed  a  reproof. 

"  Ah,  we  are  all  very  fond  of  her,"  returned  Bee,  who,  like  Pauline, 
could  be  blunt  at  times.  "' She  is  so  good-natured  and  amusing." 

"  Oh,  I  dare  say;  but  it  is  rather  a  dangerous  experiment,  lifting  peo- 
ple so  completely  out  of  their  proper  position.  Gentlemen  take  so  much 
notice  of  her,  and  it  must  be  a  little  awkward  for  you  sometimes.  Even 
a  siater  can  be  in  one's  way— but  Sybil's  governess!" 

"  Hush!  I  am  so  afraid  some  one  will  hear  you.     Yes,  I  know  what 


114  OKI  >  i:\ESS. 

you   mean,"  i'<>r   Bee   had  suffered  more  than  one   ]">ang  of    jealoi; 
Mi-s  'imt,    and   thai  very  afternoon    she   liail   seen    Mr. 

llamblyn  waylay  lier.    "  1  dare  say  you  are  right,  and  no  doubt  it  is  in- 
judieious;  but  mother  and  Pauline' are  so  devoted  toher,  and  I  mi; 
she  makes  herself  very  neeessary  to  us  all." 

"  I  am   afraid  you  are  all  making  a  mistake  that  you  may  liv' 

'  relumed   the  other,  senlentiously.     "  I  remember  a  family 
where   the  governess  was  young  and  handsome,  and  the  uncle— a  rich 
man — "  but  liere  a  low  laugh  from  the  curtained  recess  in  the  "window 
startled  the  girls,  and   the  next    moment  Miss    IJ<  pud  down, 

looking  very  guilt}'  and  amused,  with  her  hands  held  out  in  supplica- 
tion. 

"  Do  please  forgive  me;  I  could  not  help  hearing  what,  you  said.     1 
never   thought  you  meant  to  go  on  " — trying  not  to  laugh,  as 
llamblyn  drew  herself  up  in  haughty  displeasure..    "  Don't  say  any 
more  dreadful  things  about  me,  please;  they  are  not  a  bit  true.     I   don'k 
want  to  be  in  any  one's  way,  and  I  can't  help  them  all  being  so  kind  to 
me:  even  Bee" — throwing  her  arms  round  her  with  a  hearty 
"  Bee  is  very  cross  with  me  sometimes,  but  she  is  very  good  to  n, 
though  1  am  '  only  Sybil's  governess,'  "  with  a  gleam  of  fun  in  her 
*  she  looked  at  Miss  llamblyn. 

"  Listeners  never  hear  any  good  of  themselves;  you  deserve  all  you 
have  got,"   returned  Bee,  who  could  not  help  laughing,    but 
Hamblyn  looked  solemnly  displeased.     She  was  in  an  awkward  posi- 
tion, and  she  hated  awkward  positions.     She  was  aware  that  she  had  re- 
garded Miss  Rossiter  from  the  first  with  inward  antagonism — that  she 
had  purposely  undervalued  her  on  every  occasion — and  this  untoward 
circumstance  would  not  add  to  their  friendliness;  altogether  it  \va- 
annoying.     This  was  her  first  evening  at  the  \Vitchens,  and  she  wanted 
every  one  to  regard  her  in  a  favorable  light;  and  now  she  had  made 
Miss  Rossiter  her  enemy.     "I  am  sure  I  never  meant,"  she  In 
stillly,  but  the  governess  interrupted  her  with  a  light  laugh  — 

"  Please  do  not  trouble  yourself  about  a  few  words;  every  on< 
right  to  his  own  opinion.     I  will  undertake  to  forgive  your  initial  ;• 
estimate  of  me  if  that  is  what  you  want,"  and  Miss  Rossiter  loo! 
indifferent  and  amused  that  for  once  Miss   Hamblyn    felt,  small.     She 
scarcely  said  a  word  as  she  followed  Bee  down-stairs;  and  it  did  not  add 
to  her  enjoyment  when  she  found  herself  seated  at  the  table  with 
Rossiter  exactly  opposite  her,  with  Bernard  and  <  >>  rh  side  of 

her,  making  herself  equally  agreeable  to  both. 

"I  hope  I  shall  not  get  to  hate  her  in  time,"  thought  No 
averted  her  eyes  from  the  bright   face  and  yellowish  gown,  and  tried  to 
cany  on  an  animated  discussion  with  Geoffrey  on  the  merits  of  the  last 
new  book. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

A     CIN1)  ]•;  K  i:  J,  I,  A     DANCE. 

The  mood  of  woman  who  can  tell? 

SCOTT. 

A  pretty  lass  though  somewhat !; 

on. 

IF  the  afternoon  had  been  a  .-i-nrrally  allowed  thai  the 

cvenii  unplete  triumph.     Kven  Mr.  llamblyn,  who 

authority  in  such   matters,    owned  afterward  that 'fur  an   impromptu 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  115 

"  smalV  and  early  "  dance  the  Chudleighs  had  made  rather  a  neat  thing 
of  it,  and  that  they  had  showed  good  taste  in  their  arrangements. 

In  the  first  place  the  supper  had  been  excellent,  and  there  had  been  a 
liberal  supply  of  very  fair  champagne;  then  the  Wimberley  band  had 
played  in  good  time  and  with  much  spirit;  the  dark,  polished  oak  floor 
had  been  perfect,  and  the  hall  had  been  brilliantly  lighted;  and  last, 
but  not  least,  there  had  been  several  -pretty  girls,  so  it  was  no  wonder 
Mr.  Hamblyn  owned  that  he  had  passed  an  exceedingly  pleasant  even 
ing. 

In  spite  of  his  sister's  prudent  warning  he  had  contrived  to  pay  Bea 
trix  a  great  deal  of  attention;  and  though  she  knew  her  duties  too  well 
as  a  hostess  to  give  him  as  many  dances  as  he  wished,  he  made  such  ex 
cellent  use  of  any  opportunity  that  occurred  that  before  they  parted  that 
night  both  he  and  Beatrix  felt  that  their  intimacy  had  made  a  con- 
siderable stride. 

He  had  danced  twice  with  Miss  Rossiter,  who,  by  Mrs.  Chu'lleigh's 
wish,  had  always  taken  part  in  all  their  entertainments.  ."Miss  Kossiter, 
who  was  passionately  fond  of  dancing,  could  not  fintl  it  in  her  heart  to 
refuse  so  good  a  partner,  but  she  showed  him  so  plainly  that  his  atten- 
tions were  repugnant  to  her  that  Mr.  Hamblyn,  who  had  secretly  pre- 
ferred her  at  first  to  Beatrix,  was  piqued,  and  transferred  his  allegiance 
to  his  young  hostess. 

Bee  was  looking  her  best  to-night;  some  inward  happiness  had  bright- 
ened her  eyes  and  given  fresh  bloom  to  her  cheek.  She  looked  so  fresh, 
so  innocent,  so  piquant,  that  Mr.  Hamblyn's  roving  fancy  seemed 
caught  at  last,  and  it  was  with  real  feeling  that  he  said  to  her  as  they  sat 
alone  in  the  morning-room,  "  What  a  fortunate  thing  it  was  that  my 
mother  changed  her  mind  at  the  last  moment  about  Algiers!" 

"  Why?"  asked  Bee,  innocently,  as  she  played  with  her  Ian,  but  she 
blushed  a  little  over  the  question. 

"  Need  you  ask?"  he  returned,  softly.  "  If  we  had  not  gone  to  Men- 
tone  I  should  never  have  met  you,  and  now  we  are  friends/' 

"  Oh,  yes,  of  course  we  are  friends,"  and  Bee  glanced  at  him  shyly. 
He  looked  wouderfulty  handsome  in  the  dim  light;  his  face  was  half 
turned  from  her,  as  though  his  own  words  had  moved  him,  and  she 
could  see  the  perfect  profile,  with  the  silky  mustache.  He  was  almost 
top  beautiful  for  a  man,  she  thought,  and  her  heart  beat  more  quickly 
with  some  indefinable  emotion.  Just  then  he  moved  his  position,  and 
their  eyes  met;  a  sort  of  electric  shock  seemed  to  pass  through  the  girl; 
she  rose  and  said  a  little  tremulously — 

"  I  am  not  tired  now,  and  mamma  will  be  wanting  me." 

"  Dp  not  make  me  think  you  are  afraid  of  me;  that  would  make  me 
•too  miserable,"  he  returned,  in  the  same  pleading  voice,  but  he  did  not 
seek  to  detain  her:  perhaps  he  thought  he  had  gone  far  enough  that 
night.  She  was  a  dear  girl,  and  he  was  tempted  to  make  a  fool  of  him- 
self; but  he  must  not  be  imprudent;  there  were  complications.  He  had 
not  made  up  his  mind,  so  he  took  her  back  to  her  mother  without  an- 
other word,  and  Bee  hardly  looked  at  him  when  he  bade  her  good-night. 

Perhaps  Dr.  Maxwell  was  the  only  person  who  did  not  thoroughly 
enjoy  the  evening.  Pauline  found  to  her  disappointment  that  he  did 
not  dance,  and  that  he  only  remained  to  give  his  sister  pleasure. 

"  Charlotte  has  so  little  amusement  in  her  life,  poor  girl,"  he  said, 
when  Pauline  remonstrated  with  him  on  his  gravity.  "  Oh.  no,  I  do 
not  dance.  I  had  a  weak  ankle  for  some  years,  so  I  never  formed  the 
habit  as  a  young  man. ' ' 


116  ONLY    THE    GOTERXT.SS. 

"  Doctor  Maxwell."  she  returned,  in  a  provoked  lour,  "  why  will  you 
always  speak  of  yourself  its  though  you  were  middle-aged?  It  is  such 
nonsense  making  yourself  out  so  old." 

"  1  am  two-and-thirty,"  lie  returned,  smiling  a  little  at  her  girlish 
brusqiieric:  "  is  not  that  :i  grave 

not.      Launeelot  is  thirty-two. " 

"Oh,   your  brother;  one  would  take    him   for  two-and-twenty :  he 

quite  a  boy,  and  he  evidently  enjoys  dancing,  for  he  has  n« 
out  once." 

"  Oh,  Launee  loves  dancing  and  every  sort  of  amusement.  1  am  sure 
you  would  like  it  if  you  tried."  lint  Dr.  Maxwell  shook  his  head. 

"  1  am  afraid  you'  will  not  convert  me.  Miss  Chudleis;h.  hut  I  like  to 
watch  you  all.  You  seem  so  happy.  I  wish  Prissy  could  have  been 
here:  she  beirged  hard  to  come,  but  it'  was  hardly  prudent." 

"  liut  she  is  much  better,  is  she  not?" 

"  We  hope  so;  yes,  she  is  certainly  better.  The  worst  of  it  is  you 
young  ladies  are  so  imprudent.  Prissy  is  always  doing  foolish  things 
and  tlirowiug  herself  back." 

"  So  Charlotte  says." 

"  Oh,  we  should  all  of  us  be  lost  without  Charlotte:  she  is  my  moth- 
er's right  hand,  and  mine  too;  and  as  for  Brenda,  she  is  utterly  depend- 
ent on  her.  I  have  never  seen  two  sisters  so  devoted  to  each  other. 
Mav  I  ask  of  what  you  are  thinking,  Miss  Chudleigh?"  for  the  girl 
had  raised  her  clear,  serious  eyes  to  his,  and  their  expression  touched 
him. 

"  I  was  only  thinking,"  she  returned,  simply,  "what  a  useful  life 
yours  must  be,  so  many  dependent  o'n  you  for  their  daily  comfort." 
But  he  reddened  slightly  at  her  sympathetic  tone. 

"  You  are  very  kind  to  put  it  in  that  way;  it  is  horrid  of  me  to  be  dis- 
contented  sometimes,  is  it  not?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  believe  that  for  a  moment.  Charlotte  was  only  telling 
us  the  other  day  that  you  are  never  out  of  humor." 

"  Charlotte  is  a  great  goose." 

"  And  I  am  a  goose  too  for  believing  her,  I  suppose,"  laughing 
merrily.  "  No,  it  will  not  do,  Doctor  Maxwell;  I  prefer  Charlotte's 
opinion:  discontented  people  are  always  cross." 

"  Indeed  you  are  wrong,"  more  earnestly  than  the  ease  warranted, 
for  she  had  spoken  half  in  jest;  but  he  was  bent  on  proving  to  this  girl 
that  he  was  a  mere  mortal,  and  no  hero  with  exaggerated  vie 
duty. 

"  I  have  my  moods  of  discouragement  like  oth^r  people.     1  am  often 
discontented,  not  to  say  morose,  only  one  need  not  show  it.     1  sup- 
pose we  \vould  all  of  us  like  to  choose  our  environment,  and  I  must  own 
a  few  thousand  pounds  in  the  funds  would  sweeten  existence." 

dine  elevated  her  eyebrows,  but  did  not  answer;  this  statement 
rather  surprised  her. 

"  I  mean,"  he  added,  quickly,  for  he  did  not  wish  her  to  mistake  his 
meaning  or  think  him  mercenary,  "  a  few  more  hundreds  a  year  would 
enable  my  mother  to  have  a  home  of  her  own.  Riverslelgh  is  not  the 
pi; tee  for  either  Brenda  or  Prissy;  we  are  too  near  the  river.  Kivers- 
Feigb  lies  low,  and  is  certainly  not  bracing;  they  would  both  be  better 
in  the  country.  But  what  are  we  to  do?  .My  work  lies  here.  1  could 
not  lind  a  suitable  housl-  in  the  town,  and  I  have  Bridg<  llou 

V  ought  to  g««  t"  Monlreux  or  Meiilone  again  this  winter  to  < 
the  iiver  fogs,  but  J  know  we  shall  not  be  able  to  manage  it." 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  117 

"  You  must  just  do  the  best  you  can  under  the  circumstances,  and 
leave  results,"  returned  Pauline,  very  sensibly.  She  had  seen  a  great 
deal  of  the  young  doctor  during  that  fortnight  at  Mentone,  and  they 
had  had  long  conversations,  in  which  Charlotte  had  joined;  they  were 
quite  like  old  friends  now. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  smiling  at  her,  for  her  straightforward  frankness  had 
pleased  him  from  the  first.  "  I  must  just  do  the  best  1  can  for  them 
all,"  and  then  Pauline  saw  her  partner  waiting  for  her,  and  reluctantly' 
left  her  comfortable  seat.  She  preferred  talking  to  Dr.  Maxwell  to 
dancing  with  Captain  Grenfell;  he  was  so  nice  and  sensible,  so  superior 
to  the  usual  run  of  men. 

Once,  as  she  stopped  in  the  giddy  round,  she  looked  across  the  halJ, 
and  saw  that  he  was  still  standing  in  the  same  place,  and  that  he  had 
been  quietly  watching  her;  and  this  gave  her  pleasure,  for  she  somehow 
wanted  him  to  like  her. 

"  Poor  little  girl,  how  happy  she  looks!"  thought  Dr.  Maxwell,  wak- 
ing up  from  a  brown  study,  as  Pauline  gave  him  a  bright  smile  as  she 
passed  on  her  partner's  arm.  "  She  is  very  fresh  and  nai've;  the  world 
has  not  spoiled  her  yet.  Most  people  admire  the  elder  sister,  and  I  sup- 
pose she  is  prettier — yes,  that  is  the  word  for  her— but  there  is  more  in 
this  one's  face." 

Launcelot  had  enjoyed  the  evening  most  thoroughly.  Bee  assured 
him  very  graciously,  when  she  bade  him  good-night,  that  he  had  clone 
his  duty  to  his  fair  guests  nobly. 

"  And  you  danced  with  Nora  three  times,"  in  an  approving  tone. 

"  Oh,  yes;  I  danced  with  Miss  Hamblyn.  Her  step  just  suited  mine; 
but  I  like  Miss  Mainwaring's  style  quite  as  well." 

"  Yes,  but  Patty  is  so  plain— not  that  she  can  help  it,  poor  girl;  and 
Nora  is  so  handsome."  But  to  this  Launcelot  made  no  audible  reply. 
He  would  not  hurt  Bee's  feelings  by  saying  that  he  did  not  personally 
admire  her  friend.  She  was  a  fine  girl,  and  very  cheerful  and  talkative; 
but  he  still  thought  her  "  earthly,"  and  the  term  was  conclusive  in  his 
mind. 

Toward  the  end  of  the  evening  as  the  numbers  were  thinning  a  little, 
and  they  had  begun  to  play  one  of  Strauss's  delicious  valses,  he  saw 
Miss  Rossiter  standing  alone;  she  was  watching  the  dancers,  and  beat- 
ing time  softly  with  her  foot.  In  a  moment  he  was  beside  her. 

"  Let  us  try  this  together,"  he  said,  quietly,  but  there  was  restrained 
eagerness  in  his  manner.  "  I  have  never  danced  with  you;"  but  to  his 
surprise  she  hesitated  and  rather  drew  back. 

"  I  think  you  had  better  choose  another  partner;  there  is  Miss  Ham- 
blyn sitting  down  in  the  comer. : ' 

"  Ah,  I  never  dance  more  than  three  times  with  any  lady;  besides,  I 
want  to  dance  this  valse  with  you."  Launcelot's  tone  was  a  little  per- 
emptory, and  perhaps  Miss  Rossiter  felt  she  must  not  disobey  the  master 
of  the  house,  for  she  let  him  put  his  arm  around  her  without  saying 
anything  more. 

"  Nonsense;  why  should  I  not  have  one  dance  with  her?"  thought 
Launcelot.  "  If  people  talk,  they  will  talk  still  more  presently,"  and 
then  he  became  slightly  dizzy  at  the  idea  he  had  conjured  up,  and  so 
dismissed  it,  and  gave  himself  up  to  the  pleasure  of  the  moment. 

He  had  had  many  good  partners  in  his  life,  but  never  such  a  one  as 
Miss  Rossiter.  Nora  Hamblyn  could  not  hold  a  candle  to  her;  her  time 
was  perfect;  she  seemed  to  glide  to  the  music  like  the  spirit  of  the  valse 
itself;  her  light  foot  scarcely  touched  the  floor. 


118  ONLY    TJIK    M>vi.,iNESS. 

"  That  was  delicious.  We  must  have  one  turn  more,  '  he  pleaded  tS 
*he  stoppod.  "  You  do  not  mean  to  say  you  are  tired?" 

'  No:  but  I  would  rather  not  dance  any  more,"'  she  returned. 

v  that,  he  had  no  option  but  to  take;  her  to  ;i  seat,      lie  felt  ;i  little 
pu/./led  at  her  evident  reluctance  to  dance  with  him.     Jit;  h 
dancing  with  (Jcott'rey.  and,  indeed,  she  had  refused  no  one  who  had 
asked  her.     He  knew  she   was  not  tired.     She  was  a  little   pale  with 
pleasure  and  excitement,  that  was  all. 

"  I  am  afraid  I  didn't  satisfy  you,"  he  said,  in  rather  a  piqued 

"  Oh,  Chudleigh,  and  you  dance  so  beautifully.    You  have  been  quite 
the  best  partner  1  have  had  this  evening,  though  Mr.  llamblvn  \\ 
well." 

"  Then  why  have  you  cut  short  my  pleasure?"  he  persisted.     "It 
ry  ill-natured  of  you  when  I  wanted  another  turn  so  badly." 

"Not  to-night.  Please  don't  be  vexed.  I  think  I  enjoyed  it  too 
much.  It  is  not  good  for  me.  When  we  were  dancing  together  it  did  not 
seem  right  somehow.  I  can't  explain;  and,  of  course,  you  think  me 
queer?" 

"  Well,  you  are  queer,  are  you  not?"  but  Launcelot  looked  at  her 
rather  anxiously.  She  was  quite  pale  now,  and  her  large  gray  eyes  had 
a  half- frightened  expression,  as  though  some  thought  were' troubling 
her.  "  What  am  I  to  understand  by  this  rigmarole  that  you  think  it 
wrong  to  dance  with  me?"  but  she  knitted  her  white  brows,  and  looked 
us  though  she  had  hardly  understood  him. 

"  Come,  I  am  very  obstinate  by  nature,  and  I  want  to  argue  this  out 
for  my  own  peace  of  mind.  I  like  dancing  with  you  more  than  witk 
any  one  else.  Why  do  you  dislike  to  dance  with  me?" 

"  I  do  not,  I  do  not.     What  an  idea,  Mr.  Chudleigh!" 

"  You  do  not  dislike  it?" 

"  Of  course  not.     Why  should  I,  when  you  dance  so  beautifully?" 

"  Thank  you,  Miss  Rossiter.  I  love  compliments.  Well,  then;" 
but  to  his  chagrin  she  gave  an  odd  little  laugh  and  fled,  and  he  positively 
saw  her  no  more  that  evening. 

"  What  a  strange  girl!"  he  said  to  himself  as  he  walked  away 
he  determined  he  would  have  it  out  with  her  soon.     lie  would  finish 
the  picture,  and  then — and  then!  and  again  there  came  that  glow  in  his 
eyes. 

The  evening  had  been  a  triumph  to  Bee;  but  during  the  next  few 
her  satisfaction  was  less  complete.     It  was  evident  that  the  fascinating 
Nora  had  found  no  favor  in  Launcelot 's  eyes. 

He  was  very  civil  to  her,  and  interested  himself  in  any  little  plan  that 

his  sisters  had  made  for  the  amusement  of  their  guest;  but  he  never 

offered  to  be  of  the  party.     "  Of  course  you  will  go  with  them. 

Geoffrey,"  he  would  say,  in  a  cool,  off-hand  manner,     lie  even  lent  his 

horse  to  Geoffrey  that  he  might  ride  with  Miss  llamblyn. 

Bee  did  not  dare  grumble  openly,  for  the  young  master  of  the  1 
was  M  privileged  person,  and  no  one  ventured  to  criticise  his  movements; 
but  she  hinted  pettishly  now  and  then  that  she  wished  that  UP 
picture  was  done,  for  she  wanted  Xoru  to  think  that  only  press  of  busi- 
ness made  Launcelot  shut  himself  up  all  day  in  his  studio. 

But  one  afternoon  when  Geoii'n-y  and  M'NS  Eamblyn  had  started  for 
a  ride,  Launcelot  came  into  the  morning-room,  and  asked  Pauline 
I  to  walk  down  to  Overtoil  with  him.      "  1  have  some  bush:. 
the  post-ollicc  and  the  bank,  and  as  I  have  been  working  all  the  morn 
Ing,  a  quick  walk  will  do  me  good." 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  US 

Pauline  was  delighted  at  the  idea.  A  walk  with  Launcelot  \v;ts 
always  a  much-coveted  pleasure;  but  Bee,  who  was  writing  notes,  looked 
lap  in  rather  an  aggrieved  manner. 

"  I  thought  you  were  so  busy,  Launce,  or  else  I  would  have  asked  you 
to  drive  us  to  Richmond;  it  would  have  amused  Nora  so." 

"  Oh,  I  dare  say  she  finds  Geoff  just  as  amusing,"  was  the  careless 
answer;  and  then  mischief  prompted  him  to  add,  "  I  think  Geoff  is  just 
a  little  bit  soft  on  your  fair  friend." 

"  Nonsense,  Launce,  how  can  you  be  so  absurd?"  and  Bee  looked 
quite  annoyed.  "  Geoffrey  is  far  too  sensible  to  think  of  such  a  thing. 
Do  you  suppose  a  girl  like  Nora  would  have  anything  to  do  with  a 
briefless  barrister,  a  younger  sou,  too?  Nora  will  marry  well,  or  not  at 
all." 

"  Geoff  will  not  always  be  a  briefless  barrteter,  my  dear.  He  is  a  ris- 
ing man." 

"  Still,  Nora  would  never  look  at  him.  He  is  far  too  young  for  her," 
was  the  decided  answer;  and  then  Bee  went  on  in  a  plaintive  voice,  "  I 
am  so  disappointed  that  you  do  not  like  Nora.  She  is  such  a  sensible 
girl;  but  you  ueveD-seem  to  talk  to  her.  She  must  wonder  at  it,  for  she 
has  always  been  accustomed  to  so  much  attention." 

"  But,  my  dear  Bee,  you  forget  I  am  an  elder  brother." 

"  Well,  what  of  that?"  rather  crossly. 

"  It  would  never  do  for  me  to  raise  fruitless  hopes,  and  if  I  were  to 
be  too  attentive  in  my  character  of  host  Miss  Haniblyn  might  think  I 
was  in  love  with  her,  and  I  assure  you  that  I  never  intend  to  introduce 
your  future  sister-in-law." 

"  Oh,  Launce,  I  do  wish  you  would  talk  sense.  Who  ever  thought 
of  such  a  thing?  I  only  meant  when  other  girls  come  to  the  house  you 
are  much  nicer  to  them  than  you  are  to  Nora.  Oh,  I  know  how  you 
can  be  when  you  like  people,  but  it  is  evident  that  my  friends  are  not 
to  your  taste,"  and  Bee  tossed  her  head,  for  she  was  in  one  of  her  little 
tempers,  and  went  on  with  her  notes;  and  Launcelot,  with  a  brief 
whistle  that  meant  volumes,  went  out  into  the  hall  to  summon  Lion, 
who  always  accompanied  him. 

But  he  was  rather  thoughtful  as  they  crossed  the  common,  and  by 
and  by  he  began  abruptly : 

"  Bee  is  in  a  pet  with  me;  she  seems  put  out  because  I  do  not  admire 
her  favorite.  1  really  believe  the  silly  child  is  disappointed  because  I 
have  not  fallen  in  love  with  Miss  Hamblyn." 

"  Oh,  no,  Launce,"  returned  Pauline,  eagerly.  "  Bee  would  not  be 
so  foolish.  She  said  to  me  only  the  other  day  that  she  did  not  know  the 
girl  who  was  worthy  of  you,  and  Nora  was  staying  with  us  then." 

"  What  did  she  mean,  then?"  he  asked,  rather  puzzled. 

"  Well,  you  see,  Nora  has  been  accustomed  to  the  very  best  society, 
and  people  have  made  a  great  deal  of  her;  in  fact,  she  is  a  girl  who  ex^ 
pects  attention  from  gentlemen,  and  Bee  is  disappointed  because  you 
never  offer  to  escoft  them  anywhere." 

"Oh,  is  that  all?" 

"  I  think  so;"  then,  in  rather  a  hesitating  voice,  for  it  is  not  always 
possible  to  tell  everything  even  to  the  best  of  brothers,  ' '  Bee  is  very 
fond  of  Nora,  and  things  so  much  of  her  opinion,  though  I  must  say 
both  Huldah  and  I  think  she  is  extremely  carping  and  critical  for  a  girl 
of  her  age,  and  she  wants  her  to  form  a  good  impression  of  us  all." 
But  Pauline  did  not  add  that  she  thought  Bee's  nervous  anxiety  to 
make  Miss  Hamblyn's  visit  pleasant  to  her  was  entirely  owing  to  the 


120  ONL^      I 


fact  that  she  was  Oscar  Ilamblyn's  sister.     Pauline  would  not  have  l>g 
1  rayed  lice's  little  secret  for  the  world. 

'"  I  suppose  that  fellow  will  turn  up  again  ou  Saturday?''  was  1 
lot's  next  question. 

"  Whom  do  you  mean  —  Mr.  Hamblyii?  Oh,  yes,  and  he  will  lake 
Nora  back  with  him.  Of  course  we  shall  see  them  often  on  our  Satur- 
days '  ' 

"I  am  sorry  to  hear  it,"  was  the  curt  answer.  "I  don't  take  to 
Hamblyn;  too  much  of  the  fop  for  my  taste." 

"  But  he  is  very  handsome;  you  can  not  deny  that.    Iluldah  d< 
like  him,  either." 

"Miss  Rossiter  shows  her  discernment.      She  is  a  .  011111; 

woman,"  and  then  he  became  silent  all  at  once,  for  a  charmin 
was  always  before  him  day  and  night,  and  he  wondered  if  he  could  wait 
until  the  picture  were  finished,  or  if  he  should  tell  her  what  had 
in  his  heart  so  long. 

He  was  so  absorbed  by  these  thoughts  that  he  was  quite  startled  when 
Pauline  spoke  to  him. 

"  Look  at  those  clouds,  Launce;  we  shall  have  a  heavy  shower  direct- 
ly, and  I  have  no  umbrella." 

"  Nor  I.  I  tell  you  what  we  will  do,  Paul;  we  will  cross  the  bridge 
and  take  refuge  at  the  Thorpes'.  You  know  I  want  you  to  call  there 
one  day." 

"  Ah,  but  Bridge  House  is  nearer;  it  is  just  by  the  station." 

"  There  is  not  a  stone's  throw  between  them.  Never  mind,  we  will 
do  both;  call  at  Bridge  House  first  and  then  at  Priory  Road."  And  to 
this  Pauline  agreed. 

As  they  turned  off  the  bridge  the  first  heavy  drops  fell,  and  they 
quickened  their  steps.  The  next  moment  they  encountered  Dr.  ^lax- 
well,  who  was  turning  in  at  his  own  gate.  He  looked  very  pleased  as 
he  shook  hands  with  them. 

"  Are  you  bringing  your  brother  to  call  on  us,  Miss  Chudleigh?  It 
is  very  good  of  you.  Charlotte  is  not  at  home;  but  all  the  others  will 
be  delighted  to  see  you."  And  opening  the  door  with  his  latch-key  he 
ushered  them  'into  the  wide,  cool  passage,  with  an  open  glass  door  "that 
led  into  the  garden. 

Bridge  House  was  a  substantial  old-fashioned  house,  evidently  built 
very  early  in  the  century.  The  windows  were  high  and  narrow,  and 
an  iron  gate  shut  in  the  front  garden. 

The  room  they  entered  had  folding-doors  that  were  always  open,  and 
made  one  long  room  that  stretched  from  the  front  to  the  back  of  the 
hoine.  It  was  handsomely  furnished  and  arranged  with  admirable 
taste.  Pauline  had  fallen  in  love  with  it  from  the  first.  She  liked  the 
easy,  old-fashioned  couches  and  carved  Indian  cabinets. 

A  pretty,  lady-like-looking  woman  in  widow's  dress  rose  from  a  low 
chair  by  the  window  when  she  saw  them. 

"  This  is  my  mother,"  said  Dr.  Maxwell;  "  and  tlh's  Aunt  Myra,  or 
rather,  I  should  say,  Miss  Royston,"  laying  his  hand  on  the  shoulder  of 
:  tiny,  bird-like  woman  with  gray  hair,  wlio  sat  by  her  knittinar. 

"How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Chudleigh?"  responded  Mi  i,  in  a 

diirpy  voice,  and  her  small  face  brightened  with  sinil<-.     ''  I  an 
you  again,  n\\  -oft   little  hand  into  Paul 

for  in  spite  of  her  blindness  Au;it  .Myra  \\;is  the  most  sociable  creature 
in  the  world,  ami  when  .4ir  li  nothing  pleased  her 

10  much  as  to  welcome  her  again. 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  121 

But  Launcelot's  attention  was  drawn  to  the  motionless,  bright-eyed 
figure  on  the  invalid  couch;  and  when  Dr.  Maxwell  suggested  that  they 
must  speak  to  Brenda,  he  crossed  the  room  at  once  and  sat  down  by 
her,  while  Pauline  chatted  to  Mrs.  Maxwell  and  Aunt  Myra. 

Launcelot  thought  he  had  never  seen  a  more  interesting  countenance. 
Miss  Maxwell  was  young,  indeed  quite  a  girl;  but  suffering  had  worn 
and  sharpened  all  the  youthful  lines,  and  robbed  her  face  of  coloring. 
The  features  were  fine,  the  forehead  broad  and  benevolent,  and  the  larg£ 
veio  wonderfully  calm  and  clear,  while  nothing  could  exceed  tfle 
beauty  of  the  hands  that  lay  on  the  silken  couvre-pieds. 

To*  Launcelot's  surprise,  Dante's  "  Purgatory  "  in  the  original  lay 
open  before  her.  Miss  Maxwell  noticed  his  look  and  smiled;  she  had  a 
very  bright,  happy-looking  smile. 

"  This  is  a  favorite  study  with  me,  and  I  am  so  glad  Charlotte  and  I 
learned  Italian  when  we  were  younger;  a  translation  always  impov- 
erishes a  poet's  language." 

"  It  is  full  of  noble  and  graceful  images,"  returned  Lauucelot,  taking 
the  book  in  his  hand  and  glancing  at  the  stanza  she  had  just  been  read- 
ing. 

"  '  Salve  Regina '  on  the  grass  and  flowers, 
Here  chanting  I  beheld  those  spirits  sit, 
Who  not  beyond  the  valley  could  be  seen.1' 

44 1  thought  I  would  make  a  picture  of  that  once,"  he  went  on.  <4  The 
whole  scene  is  so  steeped  in  tranquillity  and  fragrance,  the  row  of  gen« 
tie  penitents  waiting  so  meekly  for  their  allotted  task  of  self-purification, 
guarded  by  the  two  angels  in  vesture  '  green  as  the  tender  leaves  but 
newly  born,'  and  the  lithe  folds  of  the  creeping  serpent." 

"  Yes,  indeed,  it  would  be  a  splendid,  subject,"  she  replied,  eagerly, 
"  but  I  believe  only  Dore  has  illustrated  it.  You  are  an  artist,  Mr. 
Chudleigh.  I  could  find  it  in  my  heart  to  envy  you,  if  I  ever  envied 
any  one." 

Launcelot  looked  at  her  half  incredulously.  Pauline  had  told  him 
that  the  girl  was  hardly  ever  out  of  pain,  and  that  the  doctors  held  out 
small  hope  of  improvement.  He  thought  if  he  had  been  in  her  place  he 
would  have  envied  the  meanest  creature  living  who  had  the  use  of  its 
limbs. 

Dr.  Maxwell  answered  his  unspoken  thought: 

"  Brenda  is  a  good  girl;  she  is  always  contented,  and  makes  the  best 
of  things." 

"  I  am  quite  sure  of  that,"  he  returned,  softly.  "  But  do  you  never 
long  to  change  places  with  people?" 

44  To  jump  into  somebody  else's  mind  and  body?"  with  an  amused 
smile.  "  No,  thank  you;  myself  and  I  are  old  friends  and  have  learned 
to  put  up  with  our  failings.  It  is  like  deserting  one's  post  to  run  away 
from  one's  self.  I  dare  say  it  all  sounds  nonsense  to  you,  Mr.  Chud- 
leigh, but  it  is  the  fact  that  I  have  an  immense  interest  in  my  own  per- 
sonality; it  will  be  splendid  to  come  right  some  day." 

"Oh,  I  see  what  you  mean,"  and  the  words  "  We  shall  all  be 
changed  "  flashed  into  his  mind;  no  doubt  that  was  the  idea  she  meant 
to  convev,  only  she  had  expressed  herself  so  quaintly;  and  his  interest 
deepened  as  he' went  on  talking  to  her,  for  he  saw  that  a  strong,  healthy 
mind  dominated  the  frail,  suffering  body. 


122  ois  a  ass. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

"BUT  THERE   IS  ERICA." 

God  bless  her,  poor  thing!  she  would  bring  all  mankind  to  better  thoughts  if  she 
*ould.— Fair  Maid  of  Perth. 

L.vrxn.LOT  was  in  the  midst  of  a  description  of  Florence  to  which 
Miss  .Maxwell  was  listening  with  rapt  attention  when  they  heanl  the 
hall  door  open,  and  the  next  moment  Charlotte,  entered,  followed  by  a 
fair,  delicate  girl,  whom  her  brother  addressed  as  j': 

"It  is  very  convenient  to  have  a  house  doctor,  is  if  not?" 
Brenda  with  a  smile,  when  he  had  ordered   Prissy  with  good-humored 
peremptoriness  to  take  off  her  wet  water-proof  und  change  her  boots 
without  a  minute's  delay.    Prissy  obeyed  reluctantly;  she  was  evidently 
a  spoiled  child. 

"  Hedley  is  quite  right,  my  dear;  please  go  at  once,"  added  the 
mother,  gently,  and  then  she  gave  some  order  to  Charlotte,  who  left  the 
room  with  her  sister. 

"Charlotte  looks  tired,"  observed  Brenda,  in  an  aside  to  Pauline; 
"  she  has  been  to  town  to  execute  some  commissions  for  Sophy;  she 
works  far  too  hard  for  us  all.  I  do  not  know  what  we  should  all  do 
without  her,"  and  there  was  something  in  Brenda's  tone  that  told  what 
the  sisters  were  to  each  other. 

If  Charlotte  was  fagged  and  weary,  she  kept  these  facts  to  herself. 
A  trim  maid  brought  in  the  tea,  and  Charlotte  sat  down  at  the  little 
square  table,  as  a  matter  of  course. 

Everything  in  the  Maxwells'  house  spoke  of  better  days.     The  : 
ive  silver  tea-pot  and  cream  jug  and  beautiful  china;  the  diamond  rings 
on  Mrs.  Maxwell's  and  Miss- Roy ston's  lingers;  there  was  a  quiet,  highly 
bred  manner,  too,  about  Mrs.  Maxwell  that  showed  she  was  conversant 
with  good  society.     She  was  not  a  great  talker,  trouble  hail  subdued 
her  naturally  high  spirits,  but  when  Dr.  Maxwell  had  been  called 
to  a  patient  she  spoke  of  him  to  Launcelot  with  much  feeling. 

"  My  son  is  everything  to  me,"  she  said.  "  What  would  these  poor 
girls  have  done  without  him?"  and  then  she  looked  at  IJrenda,  and 
si-hod;  "  it  is  a  heavy  burden  for  a  young  man,  is  it  not,  Mr.  Chnd- 
leigh?" 

"  I  am  quite  sure  from  the  little  I  have  seen  of  Doctor  Maxwell  that 
he  bears  his  burdens  very  cheerfully,"  replied  Launcelot,  "and  I  am 
also  certain,"  looking  round  the  room,  "  that  you  all  make  him  very 
happy:  there  is  nothing  that  a  man  likes  better  than  to  be  fussed  over 
by  this  womankind.  I  assure  you  I  speak  from  experience  " — at  which 
they  all  laughed. 

The  rain  still  continued  to  fall  heavily,  so  Launcelot  proposed  that  he 
should  go  alone  to  Priory  J  Joad  and  call  for  Pauline  when  it  had  ci< 
a  little,  and  to  this  she  agreed  with  alacrity. 

"That   is   nice   of   him,  and   now   we   can    have   a    talk."  observed 
Brenda,  cheerfully;  and  Charlotte,  who  understood  her  meaning  wilh- 
word,  wheeled  her  sister's  couch  into  the  back  pait.  of  the  room, 
:  she  might  not  lie  tired  by  too  many  voices. 

"  Thank  you.  Char,"  she  said,  brightly,  "  but  you  need  Tint  go  away. 
Sit  down  by  me  ami  If  while  '.Miss  ( 'Jmdleigh  and  I  talk.  It 

will  do  you  good,"  taking  her  hand  caressingly,  but  Chariot!.-  >]j<»ok 
her  head. 


OKLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  123 

"  You  must  not  tempt  me,  my  dear.  I  must  write  to  Sophy  and  tell 
her  what  I  have  done  at  the  stores;  she  will  want  to  know  when  to  ex- 
pect her  things.  Heclley  will  require  me  on  his  return,"  and  with  a 
little  nod  she  disappeared. 

"  Poor  dear  Charlotte,  we  all  work  her  too  hard,"  returned  Brenda, 
"  but  she  does  not  seeni  to  mind  it.  I  was  so  glad  she  had  that  even- 
ing's play  at  your  house;  it  did  her  so  much  good." 

"And  she  must  come  to  us  every  Saturday,  and  Prissy  too;  OUT 
friends  have  carte  blanche  for  the  season." 

"  I  am  afraid  that  would  be  impossible,  but  we  will  coax  Hedley  to 
take  Prissy  sometimes,  when  he  is  not  too  much  engaged;  but  you  must 
not  expect  him  to  stay  fqr  the  dancing." 

"  Oh,  we  do  not  dance  every  Saturday,  only  now  and  then;  it  is  jusl 
a  garden-party;  people  meet  their  friends  and  play  tennis." 

Hedley  said  it  was  charming:  there  was  no  stillness  or  re- 
straint, everybody  seemed  thoroughly  happy  and  at  his  ease.  I  am  so 
glad  you  brought  your  brother  to  see  us.  I  like  him  so  much,  there  ia 
something  so  real  and  true  about  him;  and  then  he  is  so  sympathetic: 
lew  young  men  would  know  how  to  talk  to  an  invalid." 
'  Launce  is  not  a  bit  like  other  young  men." 

"No;  one  could  see  that  in  a  moment.  I  think  I  puzzled  him  a  lit- 
tle in  telling  him  I  did  not  want  to  change  places  with  any  one;  he 
looked  so  surprised." 

"  I  think  I  was  surprised  top  when  I  heard  you  say  it." 

"  Oh,  but  I  really  meant  it,  only  Aunt  Myra  is  the  only  one  who 
understands  me.  Of  course  I  should  like  not  to  be  in  pain,  and  to  be 
able  to  move  about  like  other  people,  but  my  pain  and  helplessness  are 
not  me;  they  are  only  the  accidents  of  the  case,  the  sad  environment 
that  surrounds  me.  I  would  rid  myself  of  them  gladly  if  I  could,  but 
not  at  the  cost  of  getting  rid  of  myself." 

"  Launcelot  says  I  am  dreadfully  prosaic.  I  don't  believe  I  under- 
stand you  one  bit,"  and  then  Brenda  laughed  merrily. 

"  I  dare  say  it  does  seem  strange  to  people,  but  I  can't  help  my  feel- 
ings. I  am  a  great  deal  too  fond  of  myself;  but  think  what  I  have  bat- 
lied  through.  All  these  difficulties  give  one  an  interest  in  one's  self;  one 
longs  to  know  how  the  fight  will  go  on  and  what  the  end  will  be— one's 
life  is  dreadfully  interesting  to  one's  self." 

"  Yes,  but  you  have  so  little  enjoyment  in  yours,"  returned  Pauline, 
speaking  out  of  the  inexperience  of  her  strong,  vigorous  youth. 

"How  do  you  know  that?"  was  the  quick  response.  "I  am  tre- 
mendously happy  sometimes— and  in  spite  of  pain  I  have  my  pleasures 
like  other  people.  I  enjoy  reading  and  thinking,  a  talk  with  Charlotte 
is  my  greatest  treat,  and  then  they  are  all  so  good  to  me— mother  and 
lie  1  ley  and  Prissy — and  I  must  not  forget  Aunt  Myra — Aunt  Myra  is 
an  angel." 

41  She  seems  very  cheerful  too  in  spite  of  her  blindness,"  for  during 
the  pauses  in  their  conversation  they  could  hear  Miss  Royston's  chirp- 
ing tones. 

"  Of  course  she  is  cheerful — she  knows  she  will  see  one  day,  and  she 
is  not  too  impatient  to  wait.  Oh,  you  should  hear  us  talk  sometimes  of 
how  we  shall  feel  when  we  get  to  Paradise.  Aunt  Myra  says  she  shall 
just  sit  down  and  look  at  the  beautiful  prospect,  and  see  the  angels' 
faces — that  will  be  enough  happiness  at  first,  she  thinks;  and  I  say  my 
idea  will  be  just  to  keep  moving  about — walking  over  the  green'past- 
ures  br  the  River  of  Life.  I  should  not  want  to  rest.  I  have  had  rest 


124  ONLY     TIIF    (iOVFKXESS. 

enough  i\ere.    I  would  just  move  on  in  that  pure  unearthly  light 
air,  bilking  to  one  and  then  another.     Oh,  it  will  be  glo; : 

"  You  speak  as  though  you  could  sec  it  all,"  said  Pauline,  rather  en 
viously,  for  though  she  was  a  good  girl,  and  said  her  prayers  carefully, 
and  was  more  thoughtful  than  most  young  people,  she  had  not  reached 
Uremia's  standard. 

"ir<e  Aunt  Myra  and  I  see  it;  what  would  be  the  use  of  believ- 
ing it  at  all  if  it  did  not  make  one's  life  happier?  Sometimes  when  I 
lie  awake,  liecause  my  poor  back  is  so  bad,  I  can  not  help  loniring  for 
the  end  to  come  quickly;  but  lledley  says  there  is  no  chance  of  that, 
that  I  have  far  too  much  vitality  in  ine,  and  that  it  is  possible  that  I 
may  live  a  great  many  years  unless  any  fresh  complications  a: 

"  Well,  does  not  that  make  you  unhappy?" 

"  Not  often,  though  of  course  I  am  depressed  at  times  like  other  in- 
valids, and  then  Charlotte  and  lledley  are  so  good  to  me  because  they 
know  I  can  not  help  it;  oh,  I  do  not  often  fret.  When  the  pain  is  very 
bad,  I  try  to  bear  it  by  thinking  that  one  day  there  shall  be  no  more 
pain,  that  this  stupid  back  of  mine  will  leave  off  aching  some  day.  that 
my  suffering  now  is  nothing  compared  to  my  future  enjoy  men! 
that  it  will  be  really  I  who  will  enjoy  all  the  good  things.  So  no  won- 
der I  would  not  change  places  with  anybody,  and  if  you  were  to  talk  to 
Aunt  Myra  you  would  find  that  she  felt  the  same." 

"  I  don't  think  I  shall  pity  you  any  more,  Miss  Maxwell." 

"To  be  sure  you  will  not.  I  never  could  bear  to  be  pitied.  Why, 
think  how  much"  worse  it  might  be.  Some  people  have  to  slay  in  bed 
for  years,  and  to  spend  their  days  alone,  while  1  am  able  to  use  this  nice 
couch,  and  be  with  my  dear  ones  all  day  long.  Do  you  know,  Char- 
lotte and  I  share  such  a  nice  room  on  this  floor,  for  I  could  not  manage 
stairs?  It  ought  to  have  been  a  study  for  Hedley,  but  he  has  to  u 
dining-room  for  his  patients.  They  have  fitted  up  a  nice  little  study  for 
him  upstairs,  which  he  uses  in  the  evening,  but  it  is  not  so  convenient 
for  him." 

"  Charlotte  told  me  that  she  never  left  you  alone  at  night." 

"  No;  they  think  I  should  be  dull,  away  from  them  all,  but  that  is 
nonsense.  I  am  never  dull,  but  all  the  same  I  like  to  have  Charlotte 
with  me;  it  is  our  time  for  quiet  talk.  Ah,  there  is  Mr.  Chudleigh  back 
again,  and  you  must  go,  but  you  will  come  and  see  us  both  ML 

"  Indeed  I  will,"  returned  Pauline,  earnestly;  and  as  the  rain  had 
stopped,  and  the  evening  promised  to  be  fine,  they  decided  to  walk  up 
the  hill,  instead  of  taking  a  hansom. 

"  Pauline,  1  like  those  people,"  observed  Launcelot,  with  hearty  em- 
phasis, as  they  recrossed  Overtoil  Bridge.  ".Mrs.  Maxwell  is  a  most 
lady-like  womam,  and  as  for  poor  Miss  Maxwell,  she  seems  a  line,  intel- 
ligent creature.  I  quite  approve  of  your  new  friends,  my  dear.  It  is 
an  education  to  l>e  among  such  women.  I  wish  Bee  had  shared  your 
good  ' 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  like  them,  Launce,"  returned  his  sister. 

and  I  shall  ask  Doctor  Maxwell  to  dine  when  Thorpe 
week.     He  has  not  fixed  the  day  yet;  I  want  them  to  kno\\ 
other.      By   the   bye,  Paul,  I   was  sorry  you    wen?   not   with   me: 
Thorpe  would  have  liked  to  see  you.     She  said  so  more  than  once,  and 
just  as  we  were  talking  about  you  who  should  come  in  but  Thorpe;  him- 
self, <|iiile  unexpectedly,  for  In";  had  written   to  say  that  he  might  be  d» 
•  pleaded  to  sec  him." 

"  And  he  has  really  promised  t< 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  125 

"  Ytft;  he  made  no  sort  of  objection,  and  he  looked  pleased  when  I 
aaid  I  should  ask  Doctor  Maxwell  to  meet  him.  He  does  not  seem  quite 
the  thing,  rather  hipped.  I  saw  Miss  Thorpe  was  watching  him  same- 
what  anxiously.  I  am  afraid  he  has  rather  a  dull  life,  poor  fellosv." 

"'  Perhaps  he  wants  his  wife  back?"  hazarded  Pauline,  who  was 
aware  of  the  bare  facts  of  the  case.  "  It  does  seem  so  dreadful,  Launce, 
when  married  people  rind  they  can  not  get  on  with  each  other." 

"  People  ought  to  have  more  forbearance  with  each  other,  my  dear; 
most  likely  Thorpe,  who  is  an  excellent  fellow  in  his  way,  would  have 
done  better  with  a  different  sort  of  woman.  Of  course  I  am  no  judge 
in  such  matters,  but  I  should  have  thought  Thorpe  would  have  made  a 
first-rate  husband.  He  is  reserved,  but  has  plenty  of  feeling,  and  he  is 
even-tempered.  I  like  the  way  he  treats  his  sister;  he  is  so  thoughtful, 
too,  in  little  things." 

"  So  is  Doctor  Maxwell,  I  am  sure,"  replied  Pauline,  whose  thoughts 
were  still  dwelling  on  her  friends,  and  to  this  Lauucelot  yielded  a  warm 
assent,  and  the  long  walk  was  very  pleasant  to  them  both,  as  they  ex- 
changed their  ideas  on  the  excellences  of  the  Maxwell  family. 

The  following  Saturday  there  was  another  gathering  of  young  people 
at  the  Witchens,  but  this  time  there  was  no  band  and  no  impromptu 
dance  for  the  evening. 

Launcelot,  who  was  much  absorbed  by  his  picture — indeed,  he  was 
often  at  work  by  six  o'clock. in  the  morning — had  given,  orders  that  no 
one  was  to  enter  the  studio,  and  it  was  not  until  he  heard  the  carriages 
driving  up  for  the  departing  guests  that  he  remembered  that  Miss 
Hamblyn  was  leaving  them,  and  put  down  his  brushes  and  palettes  in 
a  hurry. 

The  lawn  was  almost  empty,  but  a  group  of  young  people  were  chat- 
ting and  laughing  outside  the  drawing-room  window,  and  a  little  apart 
from  them  were  Beatrix  and  Mr.  Hamblyn,  talking  rather  earnestly 
together,  but  they  stopped  directly  they  saw  him,  and  it  struck  Launce- 
lot that  Bee  looked  a  little  conscious  and  confused. 

"  I  am  glad  you  have  put  in  an  appearance  at  last,  Launce,"  she  said, 
with  meaning  emphasis  on  the  words  "  at  last."  "  Xora  thought  that 
she  would  have  to  go  away  without  bidding  you  good-bye,  and  had  sent 
you  a  reproachful  message;  she  is  getting  ready  now,  and  they  are  put- 
ting the  luggage  on  the  carriage." 

And  as  she  spoke  Miss  Hamblyn  came  out  of  the  house.  She  received 
Launcelot's  excuse  very  graciously,  for  she  had  made  up  her  mind,  in 
spite  of  a  natural  pang  of  wounded  vanity,  that  no  coldness  on  the  part 
of  the  young  master  of  the  house  should  prevent  her  intimacy  with  the 
Chudleighs,  and  she  spoke  a  word  to  this  effect,  when  she  found  herself 
alone  with  her  brother. 

His  first  speech  had  been  a  little  provoking. 

"  You  have  played  your  cards  badly  there,  I  am  afraid,  Nora,"  ho 
had  said,  with  the  brutal  frankness  to  which  some  brothers  are  addict' 
ed.  "  Mr.  Chudleigh  was  very  cool  in  his  leave-taking;  he  is  a  pleasant 
enough  fellow  in  his  way,  but  I  fancy  he  has  not  taken  much  to  either 
of  us." 

"  I  do  not  think  he  is  a  marrying  man,"  returned  Nora,  with  the 
utmost  composure,  though  she  had  winced  a  little  at  this  plain  speak- 
ing; "but  I  have  always  found  him  very  nice.  I  certainly  mean  to 
cultivate  the  Chudleighs,  Oscar;  they  are  very  desirable  people  to  know. 
The  house  is  delightful,  and  so  are  their  friends;  and  as  for  Bee,  she  is 
ftdearsirl." 


129  OJTLY    THE    GOVERNESS. 

"I  an  oeginning  to  be  of  the  same  opinion  myself,"  he  returned, 
coolly;  but  here  Nora  looked  at  him  rebukingly,  and  held  up  an  admon- 
ishing linger. 

I  do  hope  you  mean  to  be  careful." 

"  Come,  now,  no  preaching;  you  know  I  never  interfere  with  your 
little  ganirt*.  Xora." 

»'o;  but  do  listen  to  me,  just  this  once,  like  a  good  boy.  Bee  is  my 
friend,  and  she  is  far  too  nice  for  any  stupid  flirtations;  her  brother 
would  not  like  it,  and  we  should  both  be  banished  from  the  Witchen^. 
You  are  a  dangerous  person,  Oscar;  you  make  girls  think  you  are  in 
\  ith  them,  and  then  you  suddenly  get  tired  of  them.  I  won't  have 
my  dear  little  Bee  made  unhappy. " 

""  But  supposing  I  am  really  hit  for  once;  even  a  flirt  gets  caught  at 
last." 

"  I  do  not  believe  it,"  in  a  very  decided  tone;  "  you  are  only  < 
ing  yourself  or  me.     It  will  not  do,  Oscar,  at  any  price.     Bee  has  not 
more  than  live  thousand  pounds  of  her  own." 

"  Well,  five  thousand  is  a  neat  little  sum,"  replied  her  brother.  His 
tone  seemed  to  mystify  Nora,  for  she  looked  at  him  in  genuine  alarm. 

"  You  can  not  mean  that  you  are  realty  thinking  of  it?    You  are  only 
trying  to  frighten  me?   Of  course  I  should  love  to  have  Bee  for  a 
in- law,  but  there  is  Erica;  now  it  is  no  use  your  looking  angry  when- 
ever I  mention  Erica's  name— much  as  you  try  the  poor  girl,  1  do  not 
think  that  you  would  venture  to  treat  her  badly." 

"Erica — always  Erica,"  in  a  fretful  tone.  "I  tell  you  what  it  is, 
Nora,  I  shall  get  to  hate  her  if  you  and  the  mother  persist  in  always* 
worrying  me  about  her.  She  gives  me  trouble  enough  without  your 
adding  to  it;  one  would  think  we  were  actually  engaged  to  see  how  she 
takes  me  to  task." 

"  I  consider  you  are  engaged  to  Erica,"  was  th^  unflinching  reply. 

Then  Oscar's  brow  grew  very  black,  and  he  muttered  a  strong  word 
under  his  breath. 

"  Oh,  you  need  not  put  yourself  out,"  went  on  Nora,  who  had  heard 
the  strong  word.    "  It  is  all  very  well  for  you  to  say  that  you  and  Krira 
are  cousins,  and  that  your  attentions  mean  nothing  but  cousinly 
tion.     AVhen  there  are  two  thousand  a  year  in  the  case,  attention- 
erally  mean  a  good  deal;  especially  when  the  gentleman  h 
debts  and  wants  a  little  capital." 

"Xora,  you  are  enough  to  drive  a  fellow  crazy;  if  you  told  Miss 
Chudleigh  that  I  was  engaged  to  my  cousin  Erica,  you  told  a  confound- 
ed lie,  and  did  me  the  worst  possible  turn,  and  " — very  savagely — "  I 
vow  I  will  never  forgive  you." 

"  My  dear  boy,  why  will  you  put  yourself  in  such  a  fearful  rage  lie- 
cause  1  give  you  a  word  of  sisterly  advice,  all  for  your  good?    Is  it  not 
understood  between  us  that  we  are  never  to  interfere  with  earh  other's 
little  plans?     Of  course  I  have  not  breathed  a  word  about  Erica's  < 
enee  to  either  Bee  or  Pauline." 

Then  Oscar's  moody  brow  relaxed,  and  he  drew  a  long  breath  of 
relief. 

"But  all  the  same,  I  do  not  think  you  ought  to  consider  Erica;  if 
u  girl  was  fond  of  a  man,  that  girl  is  Hi  i 

)j  she  would  not  show  her  fondness  then,  by  being  jealous  of 
woman  to  whom  1  say  a  civil  word.     1  know  if   , 

to  her  to-morrow,  she  would  make  my  lil'e  miserable;  her  own  want  of 
i.y  hag  soured  her,  I  b.  !"i ate  a  pretty  1 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS. 

"  Oscar,  I  dp  think  you  are  too  hard  on  poor  little  Erica;  she  is  really 
very  nice  looking  when  she  is  well  dressed." 

But  a  contemptuous  shrug  of  the  shoulders  was  the  sole  answer  to 
this;  and  there  was  a  few  minutes'  silence  between  the  brother  and  sis- 
ter, during  which  Oscar  looked  out  of  the  window  and  thought  of  Bee's 
pretty,  blushing1  face. 

i,  then  Nora  disturbed  his  reverie. 

"  Oscar,  I  do  wish  you  would  tell  me  frankly  exactly  how  you  stand 
with  Erica. ' ' 

I  am  not  engaged  to  her,  that  is  all  I  know,"  he  replied,  brusquely. 

'  Perhaps  not;  but  you  can  not  tell  me  to  my  face  that  Erica  does 
not  expect  to  be  your  wife."     But  to  this  he  made  no  audible  reply. 
'  Three  years  ago  you  asked  her  to  marry  you — " 

'  And  she  refused — you  had  better  add  that." 

'  She  refused  because  with  all  her  love  for  you  she  saw  plainly  that 
you  did  not  care  for  her.  I  think  Erica  did  a  wise  thing  then." 

"  I  don't  think  I  need  be  blamed  then  if  I  looked  elsewhere  for  a 
wife."  Then  she  looked  dubiously  in  his  face. 

"  The  question  is,  whether  that  offer  has  ever  been  repeated?  Of 
course  you  will  not  answer,  Oscar  " — as  he  broke  into  a  low  whistle — 
*'  of  course  you  will  tell  me  it  is  not  my  affair,  but  it  is  evident  to  me 
that  Erica  considers  you  bound  to  her." 

"  Perhaps  both  you  and  she  will  find  yourselves  mistaken  one  day," 
•was  the  imperturbable  answer;  and  then  his  manner  changed,  and  he 
said  a  little  roughly,  "  Look  here,  Nora,  if  things  are  to  be  pleasant  be- 
tween us  you  must  just  drop  this  sort  of  talk.  Leave  me  to  manage 
Erica.  I  assure  you  we  quite  understand  each  other.  Erica  is  not  the 
fool  you  think  her,  neither  am  I;"  then  Nora  knew  she  must  not  say 
another  word. 

Oscar  was  not  in  the  best  of  moods  that  evening;  he  had  succeeded  in 
silencing  his  sister,  but  he  could  not  forget  her  words,  and  he  knew  she 
had  spoken  the  truth.  His  position  was  an  awkward  one;  a  rich  wife 
was  indispensable  to  him,  and  he  knew  that  every  tie  of  hono?  and 
mutual  understanding  bound  him  to  his  cousin  Erica.  But  he  was  not 
in  love  with  her,  he  never  had  been,  and  of  late  these  bonds  had  gtown 
irksome  to  him;  he  was  half  disposed,  too,  to  make  a  fool  of  himself  on 
account  of  Bee's  pretty  face.  "It  is  a  confounded  business  altogether. 
I  wish  I  could  see  my  way  out  of  it,"  he  thought,  as  he  smoked  his 
solitary  cigar  that  night.  "  Nora  is  too  sharp  by  half,  but  I  know  bet- 
'ter  than  to  trust  her.  I  suppose  I  ought  to  give  the  Witchens  a  clear 
berth  until  I  get  over  this  fancy.  Supposing  I  keep  away  next  Satur- 
day, poor  little  thing,  she  will  be  disappointed — and  I  promised  to  go 
down;  nevermind,  perhaps  something  will  turn  up  to  keep  me  in  town. 
I  need  not  bother  my  head  about  it  now,"  and  the  result  of  this  vacillat- 
ing policy  was  that  Oscar  did  go  down  to  the  Witchens  that  Saturday, 
and  many  succeeding  ones,  and  that  the  complication  showed  no  signs 
cf  growing  clearer,  while  certain  reproachful  letters,  with  the  signature 
"  Erica  Stewart,"  began  to  accumulate  in  the  secret  drawer  of  Oscar's 
tok. 


128  OivL'*    ffiE    GOVERNESS. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

"l  DO  NOT   LIKE   SAD  THINGS." 

She  has  a  quick  and  lively  imagination  and  keen  feelings,  which  are  apt  to  exag 

botb  the  good  and  evil  they  find  in  life.—  (Jut/  Munncring. 

I  can  not  endure  the  sight  «f  woman's  tears.—  Ivanhoe. 

L  AIN<  KLOT  was  making  such  progress  with  his  picture  that  he  hoped 
;iplete  it  in  another  fortnight  or  three  weeks.     The  sitting 

•  1,  but  as  yet  there  had  been  no  opportunity  for  coming  to  an 
understanding  with  Miss  Rossiter;  ever  since  that  dance  it  h:id  » 
to  Launcelot  that  she  had  kept  more  than  usual  to  the  school-room,  and 
that  she  was  never  to  be  seen  without  her  little  pupils.  She  had  always 
been  accustomed  to  spend  her  evenings  in  the  drawing-rooms  and  to 
join  in  an3'thiug  that  went  on,  but  now  when  Launcelot  entered  the 
room  after  dinner  he  often  missed  her,  and,  on  questioning  Bee,  would 
hear  she  was  reading,  or  writing  letters,  or  that  Pauline  and  she  had  re- 
tired to  the  school-room  to  study  Italian  together.  One  day  he  en- 
countered her  accidentally  on  the  common.  She  and  the  children  were 
returning  from  a  long  country  walk.  Dossie  was  hanging  on  one  arm 
and  Sybil  on  the  other,  and  the  three  seemed  very  happy  and  merry. 

Launcelot  stood  by  the  green  door  in  the  wall,  watching  them  as  they 
came  slowly  across  the  grass,  threading  their  way  through  the  brambles. 
Dossie  was  the  first  to  see  him;  she  dropped  the  governess's  arm  and 
ran  forward  to  meet  him. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Lance!"  she  exclaimed,  breathlessly,  "  we  have  had  such 
a  walk,  and  Miss  Rossiter  has  been  telling  us  such  a  wonderful  story. 
I  don't  think  I  ever  heard  such  an  interesting  one." 

"  Children  are  generous  critics,"  observed  Miss  Rossiter,  with  a  smile 
at  this  outspoken  compliment;  "  they  appreciate  one's  poor  little  efforts 
to  amuse  them  most  kindly;  grown-up  people  are  far  more  fatiguing." 

"  Is  that  why  you  have  avoided  lisas  much  as  possible  lately?" 
Launcelot,  quietly,  as  he  drew  back  to  let  her  pass.     How  bright  and 
winsome  she  looked  this  morning  in  her  cool  summer  dress  and  shady 
hat!  which  did  not  hide,  however,  the  shapely  neck  and  coils  of  ruddy- 
brown  hair. 

"  What  do  you  mean?"  she  returned,  looking  up  at  him  frith  a  gleam 
of  fun  in  her  eyes;  but  her  tone  was  perfectly  demure. 

"  Is  it  because  grown-up  people  fatigue  you  that  you  have  c<  •:. 
give  us  your  company  in  the  evening?"  he  asked,  pointedly.     "  Why 
have  you  punished  us  by  this  desertion,  Miss  Rossiter?  why  are  we  to 
he  songs  that  give  us  so  much  pleasure?" 

"  Oh,  I  have  been  busy,"  she  answered,  carelessly  —  but  it  struck 
Launcelot  that  her  carelessness  was  a  little  assumed  —  "  and  then  Paul- 
ine and  I  wanted  to  get  on  with  our  Italian,  and  there  was  no  other 
quiet  time." 

"  I  must  speak  to  Pauline,"  he  returned,  seriousiy.  "  I  can  not  have 
gaps  in  the  family  circle  of  an  evening.  Pauline  must  study  Italian  at 
another  time,  and  I  hope  "  —  with  a  slight  emphasis  —  "  that  you  will  not 
be  tor>  busy  to  sing  to  us  to-night." 

"  O)i,  if  you  wish  it,"  she  returned,  quickly.     "  I  did  not  mean  to 
myself  disagreeable;  but  one  is  not  always  in  the  mood  to 

and  i:  e  that  oiu:  iiinv  bf-  busy  at  times.'     Hut  if  you  and  Mrs. 

C'hudleigh  wibh  to  hear  me  .sing  i  have  no  right  to  refuse." 


OJTLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  129 

"  Miss  Roesiter,  if  you  speak  in  that  tone  I  will  never  ask  you  to  sing 
again?" 

"  In  what  tone?"  she  asked,  rather  provokingly. 

"  As  though  you  were  under  orders.  As  though  we  had  a  right  to 
demand  what  I  was  asking  as  a  favor.  Oh,  you  know  what  I  mean; 
you  were  only  pretending  to  misunderstand  me." 

"It  is  no  pretense  to  recognize  my  ov.  i,"  a  little  proudly. 

"  I  never  forget  for  one  moment  that  I  am  only  tK>  governess.     I  have 
to  be  under  orders,  as  you  call  it.     I  like  to  carry  out  all  Mr*,  t 
leigh's  wishes;  it  makes  me  happy  only  to  serve  her.     It'  she  wishes  me 
to  sing  to  her  I  would  try  to  do  my  best,  if  I  were  as  hoai.se  as  a  raven. 
I  love  her  so,  that  I  would  be  her  servant  if  she  needed  mo. '' 

Launcelot  looked  at  her  very  quietly.  "  I  like  you  to  feel  like  that," 
he  said,  gravely;  "it  gives  me  pleasure  to  hear  you."  Then,  very 
slowly,  "  I  am  glad  you  love  Madella  in  that  way." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she  returned,  but  she  began  to  walk  more  quickly  toward 
the  house,  and  she  still  held  Dossie's  hand.  "  I  think  I  loved  her  th« 
first  moment  I  saw  her.  When  she  spoke  to  me  and  I' looked  at  her 
kind,  beautiful  face,  I  lost  my  heart  to  her  at  once— she  is  so  good,  so 
good,"  but  here  she  turned  her  head  aside  that  Launcelot  might  not  see 
the  tears  that  had  started  to  her  eyes. 

Launcelot  made  no  reply  to  this,  but  as  Ihey  crossed  the  lawn  he 
said,  suddenly — 

"  You  never  ask  after  the  picture  now,  and  it  is  nearly  finished; 
come  into  the  studio  a  moment  and  look  at  it.  I  should  like  to  hav« 
your  opinion;"  and  as  she  hesitated,  he  continued  a  little  impatiently, 
"  You  need  not  fear  I  shall  detain  you,  and  the  children  will  like  to  see 
it."  And  then  she  followed  him  without  another  word. 

But  Launcelot  knit  his  brows  as  he  undid  the  curtain  that  hung  be- 
fore the  unfinished  picture.  "  Does  she  guess  anything  from  my  man- 
ner?" he  thought,  anxiously.  "For  some  reason  or  other  she  is  un- 
willing to  be  alone  with  me;  ever  since  the  dance  I  have  noticed  a 
change  in  her.  She  tries  to  be  frank  and  like  her  old  self,  but  there  is 
an  effort."  But  he  had  banished  these  uneasy  reflections  when  ho 
stepped  back  from  his  picture. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  gayly,  "  what  no  you  think  of  it?  Do  you  recog- 
nize yourself,  Elizabeth?" 

"Oh!"  she  returned,  earnestly,  and  he  could  see  the  surprise  arid  awe 
in  her  eyes,  "  it  is  far  too  beautiful  for  me;  it  is  a  lovely  picture.  Oh, 
how  sad  and  frightened  she  looks,  that  poor  Eizabeth!  and  how  the 
waves  are  washing  to  her  feet — you  can  almost  hear  them;  and  the 
jroungest  child  is  in  her  arms,  and  she  wants  to  take  the  other,  and  she 
knows  they  are  to  die  together;  and  there  is  the  poor  husband  waiting 
for  her,  and  before  her  is  her  watery  grave.  Oh,  I  can  not  look  at  it 
any  longer!" 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked,  anxiously,  for  he  was  astonished  at  the 
effect  of  the  picture.  She  had  come  up  to  it  a  little  smiling  and  con- 
scious, as  though  she  were,  looking  at  herself  in  a  mirror,  and  her  lips 
were  parted  with  shy  amusement.  She  had  taken  off  her  hat,  and  he 
could  see  her  face  plainly. 

"  It  is  far  too  beautiful  for  me,"  she  had  said,  blushing  slightly  over 
her  words;  and  then  all  at  once  her  eyes  had  grown  wide  and  piteous, 
and  her  cheeks  were  pale.  "Oh,  poor  thing,  poor  thing!"  she  said, 
and  there  was  a  sob  in  her  voice.  "  It  is  her  fate,  aud  she  can  not  es- 
cape it;  and  there  is  despair  in  her  face,  for  she  knows  it  is  her  fate." 


130  ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS. 

"  My  dear  Miss  Rossiter!"  lie  remonstrated,  for  Sybil  was  looking  at 
her  in*  astonishment.     And  then  lie  said,  quietly,      You  have  walked 
too  far,  -and  yon  are  tired.     Sit  down  fora  moment, 'and  I  will  bring 
yon  a  glass  of  wine.    Stop  with  her,  Dpssie,  and,  Sybil,  come  with  me, 
for  he  "was  afraid  of  Sybil's  sharp,  curious  glances. 

ie  is  very  emotional,"  he  thought,  as  he  got  the  wine.  "  I  won- 
der why  she  was  upset  at  seeing  the  picture?  She  is  far  too  sensitive 
about  things. ' ' 

MissRossiter  had  recovered  herself  during  his  brief  absence;  she  even 
laughed  a  little  when  she  saw  the  glass  of  wine  in  his  hand. 

<;  How  foolish  I  am!"  she  said"  in  a  tone  of  apology.     "I  suppose 
after  all  1  must  have  overtired  myself;  and  somehow  that  picture 
me  a  turn — 1  sat  for  it,  you  know — and  it  is  so  sad,  and  I  do  not  li! 
tilings.'.' 

"No,"  he  returned,  cheerfully,  "the  sunshine  suits  you  best;  but 
you  are  better  now  are  you  not?'"' 

"()h,  yes;  mucn  batter.  Come,  Dossie,  we  must  not  hinder  Mr. 
Chudleigh  any  longer." 

"  One  moment  more,"  detaining  her.  "  You  will  be  in  the  drawing- 
room  this  evening.  I  have  a  friend  coming,  and  we  want  to  have  some 
music." 

"  Very  well.  Shall  you  show  your  friend  that  picture?"  she  asked, 
quickly. 

"  No,  not  until  it  is  finished.  It  is  only  you  who  have  been  treated 
to  a  private  view."  And  then  she  smiled  and  led  Dossie  away. 

"  Yes,  she  is  very  emotional,"  he  said  again  as  he  stood  opposite  his 
picture.  "  How  life-like  it  is!  if  Miss  Rossiter  were  in  trouble  she 
would  look  like  that;  one  could  imagine  the  expression  on  her  face.  I 
wonder  if  she  has  ever  known  great  trouble?  sometimes  I  fancy  sh< 
And  yet  she  is  so  gay  and  light-hearted.  Will  she  ever  tell  me  about 
her  life?  There  is  one  thing  of  which  I  am  sure — that  I  shall  never  l>e 
able  to  part  with  this  picture."  And  then  he  carefully  painted  in  a  bit 
of  drapery. 

After  all,  Launcelot  did  not  do  much  more  work  that  day,  for  at 
luncheon  Sybil  coaxed  him  to  take  her  and  Dossie  for  a  drive.  11  < 
seen  very  little  of  Dossie  lately;  his  picture  had  engrossed  him,  and  the 
child  was  much  occupied  with  her  lessons.  But  now  and  then  he  would 
come  upon  her  and  Sybil  playing  in  the  garden,  and  he  would  be 
touched  to  see  how  Dossie  would  at  once  leave  her  game  and  run  up  to 
him.  Sometimes  Miss  Rossiter  would  see  them  from  the  window  walk- 
ing slowly  up  anil  down  the  long  shrubbery  path;  the  young  man  with 
hij  head  bent  down  a  little,  Dossie  with  her  hands  clasped  round  hi? 
arm,  and  her  small,  eager  face  upturned  to  his. 

"  1  wonder  what  you  and  Mr.  Olmdlcigh  wore  talking  about, 
t>ic?"  .Miss  llossiter  would  say,  putting  back  the  child's  long  lair  hair 
with  caressing  hand,  for  she  had  grown  very  fond  of  her  gentle  little 
pupil.     Dossie  gave  her  no  trouble^  and  was  a  most  sweet,  affectionate 
child. 

"  Oh,  of  course  we  were  talking  of  father,"  would  be  the  invariable 
reply;  and  sometimes  it  would  be,  "  1  wanted  to  show  my  letter  to  Mr. 
e,  but  he  si  °i"g  to  write  to  father  himself,"  for  with  his 

usual  unselfishness  and  good  nature  J/tnneelot  wrote  brief,  irrapl, 
coui-t  lack,  which  were  supplemented  by  long,  wom- 

anly ones  from  Auiit  Delia.     How  the  poor  exile  gloated  ov<  i 
ters,  how  his  eyes  gleamed  at  the  si^ht  \>r  theml    Dossie 's  childish 


ONLY    THE    GOVKKXESS.  *    131 

effusions  were  read  until  they  were  threadbare.     Jack  knew  some  of 
the  simple  sentences  by  heart,' 

"  You  must  not  think  that  I  forgot  you,  father  dear,  because  I  am  so 
happy  here,  for  I  am  always  thiukiug  about  you,  and  trying  to  grow  up 
quickly  that  I  may  be  ready  for  you.  Mr.  Lance  and  I  do  have  such 
nice  talks  together.  I  think  him  still  quite  the  nicest  man  in  the  world; 
and,  father  dear — I  think  I  must  tell  you  a  great  secret— when  I  grow 
up  really,  1  mean  to  marry  Mr.  Lance  because  I  love  bin  so. "  How 
Jack  roared  over  that  sentence!  He  was  even  faithless  enough  to  betray 
Dossie. 

"  I  wonder  if  you  intend  to  be  faithful  to  your  childish  sweetheart?" 
Jack  wrote  once;  "  perhaps  you  did  not  know  that  Dossie  has  lost  her 
heart  to  you,  and  declares  she  will  marry  no  one  else.  Oh,  the  beauti- 
ful faith  of  childhood,  that  creates  its  own  happiness!  God  bless  you, 
old  fellow,  for  making  my  little  girl  so  happy!  What  do  I  not  owe  to 
you  and  Delia!  If  it  does  not  make  a  different  man  of  me,  my  name  is 
not  Jack  Wcston." 

One  Sunday  afternoon  when  the  two  little  girls  were  sitting  with  him 
under  the  big  elm  on.  the  lawn,  Sybil  said  rather  fretfully,  for  she  was 
accustomed  to  be  spoiled  by  her  brothers — 

"Do  you  not  like  Dossie  better  than  me,  do  you,  Launce?  You 
ought  not  to  be  fonder  of  her,  because  she  is  not  your  sister." 

"  No,  my  dear,"  looking  at  the  pretty,  puckered-up  face  in  some  sur- 
prise. "  What  should  have  put  such  an  idea  into  your  little  head?  I 
am  very  fond  of  you  both,  Sybil." 

"  Yes;  but  I  am  your  sister,"  persisted  Sybil,  who  was  in  one  of  her 
jealous  moods,  "and  Dossie  does  not  belong  to  you  a  bit.  Freckles 
said  so  the  other  day:  she  is  not  your  real  cousin,  though  she  is  ours." 

"  Never  mind,  she  is  my  little  friend,"  returned  Launcelot,  taking  his 
favorite's  hand,  for  Dossie's  head  drooped  rather  sadly  at  this  speech, 
and  he  could  see  her  lip  was  quivering.  "You  see,  Uncle  Jack  gave 
her  to  your  mother  and  ine,  so  of  course  she  is  our  little  gir],  and  I  shall 
always  feel  that  she  belongs  to  us." 

"  Yes,  but  Dossie  is  so  silly,"  went  on  Sybil,  who  was  bent  on  airing 
her  imaginary  grievances.  "  I  heard  her  tell  Miss  Itossiter  once  that 
when  she  grew  up  to  be  a  woman  she  meant  to  marry  you.  Oh,  they 
thought  1  was  not  listening,  but  I  heard  every  word,  and  though  Dossie 
was  so  stupid,  Miss  Rossiter  did  not  scold  her  a  bit;  she  only  laughed 
and  said  she  could  not  marry  a  better  man." 

Lauucelot  bit  his  lip  to  conceal  a  smile,  and  then  he  put  on  a  severe 
look. 

"  I  do  not  think  it  is  kind  of  you,  Sybil,  to  repeat  poor  Dossie's  little 
speeches,  especially  when  they  were  not  intended  for  our  ears;  a  man 
would  call  that  dishonorable,  and  I  did  not  think  my  little  sister  could 
behave  so  badly,"  and  as  Sybil  colored  under  this  unexpected  rebuke, 
he  turned  to  his  drooping  little  sweetheart. 

"  Don't  cry,  darling;  Sybil  was  very  naughty  to  tell  me,  but  we 
won't  mind  it,  Dossie,  you  and  I.  You  are  father's  little  girl  and  mine 
loo,  and  no  one  shall  find  fault  with  our  affection  for  each  other.  God 
knows  I  can  not  afford  to  lose  even  a  child's  love,  so  I  am  not  ungrate- 
ful for 'yours, "  and  go  saying  he  wiped  her  tears  away  with  a  firm, 
kindly  hand,  and  then  kissing  her  forehead  gently,  bade  them  both  run 
away  to  Miss  Rossiter. 

He  recounted  this  little  scene  afterward  to  Miss  Rossiter;  to  his  sur- 
prise she  listened  with  unwonted  gravity. 


132'  OKLY   THE    GOTERKESS. 

"  Dossie  is  very  young  for  her  age—  Sybil  would  never  have  mad* 
such  a  speech — but  she  is  the  most  innocent  child." 

"I  hope  she  may  l«>ng  remain  so;  it  is  Dossie's  great  charm  to  me. 
Do  you  notice  how  pretty  she  is  getting,  Miss  Rossiter?" 

"'I  think  she  will  be  pretty  when  Bhe  has  more  color  and  fills  out  a 
little.  She  is  certainly  devoted  to  you,  Mr.  Chudleigh;  when  you  are 
out  she  watches  for  you  from  the  window,  and  nothing  makes  her  hap- 
pier than  to  arrange  flowers  for  the  studio." 

"  She  is  a  dear  child,"  was  the  answer,  and  then  the  conversation 
turned  upon  Sybil,  who  was  just  now  leading  her  governess  a  life. 

Launcelot  took  the  children  for  a  drive  that  afternoon,  and  it  was  so 
late  when  they  returned  that  they  found  Miss  Rossiter  watching  for 
them  in  the  glass  portico,  evidently  uneasy  at  the  delay. 

"  Oh,"  .she  said  in  a  tone  of  relief,  as  she  lifted  Dossie  down,  while 
Sybil  scrambled  over  the  wheel,  "Mrs.  Chudleigh  will  be  so  dad  you 
have  arrived.     We  both  thought  some  accident  must  have  happened, 
but  no,  you  have  only  tired  your  poor  horse  to  death,  that  is  the 
with  you  gentlemen." 

"  It  is  not  my  way,"  returned  Launcelot,  lightly.  "Ruby  looks 
rather  hot  certainly,  but  we  have  done  her  no  harm,  have  we,  old  girl?" 
patting  her  glossy  brown  neck,  while  the  mare  whinnied  with  pleasure, 
and  rubbed  her  nose  delightedly  against  his  coat-sleeve.  "  But  I  am 
afraid  I  am  late,  and  my  friends  will  be  here  directly.  1  see  you  arc 
dressed;"  for  Miss  Rossiter  was  in  her  customary  black  lace  evening 
dress,  only  to-night  she  had  a  knot  of  yellow  roses  at  her  throat.  "  Re- 
member," as  she  turned  away,  with  the  children  as  usual  hanging  upon 
her,  "  we  must  have  all  the  nicest  songs  to-night,  for  Doctor  Maxwell  is 
very  fond  of  music." 

"Very  well,"  she  said,  smiling,  and  Launcelot  looked  after  her 
thoughtfully  as  he  stood  still  stroking  Ruby's  neck.  "To-morrow — I 
must  speak  to  her  to  morrow,"  he  said  to  himself  as  he  went  up  to  his 
room.  Launcelot  was  certainly  very  late.  Long  before  he  had  finished 
dressing  Fenwick  came  to  his  door  to  say  both  the  gentlemen  had 
arrived. 

"  Madella  will  say  1  have  managed  badly,"  he  thought,  with  some 
annoyance.  "  Those  little  monkeys  made  me  forget  the  time;  it  is  au 
awful  nuisance.  Thorpe  knows  none  of  them,  and  will  have  to  do  the 
best  he  can.  I  don't  mind  keeping  Maxwell  waiting,  but  with  Thorpe 
it  is  different,"  and  he  uttered  another  execration  against  his  own  care- 
lessness. 

He  was  hurrying  down  the  lobby  a  few  minutes  later  when  he  caught 
sight  of  Miss  Rossiter  standing  at  the  window  overlooking  the  front 
court.  She  turned  round  quickly  as  though  startled,  and  then  he  saw 
her  more  clearly. 

"  Miss  Rossiter!"  he  exclaimed,  much  shocked,  "  what  is  the  matter? 
you  are  ill?  something  has  happened?"  for  her  face  was  quite  white, 
and  there  was  a  curious,  frightened  expression  in  her  eyes,  an  e\ 
sion  he  had  never  seen  in  them  before,  and  yet  which  struck  him  as 
.strangely  familiar.  What  could  it  mean?  A  quarter  of  an  hQur  ago 
she  had  parted  from  him  smiling  and  radiant,  and  now  she  was  shrink- 
ing into  the  folds  of  the  curtains  as  though  she  would  avoid  him. 

"  There  is  nothing  the  matter,"  trying  to  laugh  it  off,  but  it  was  a 
miserable  ell'ort.  "  It  is  only  that  I  do  not  feel  quite  well.  I  am  a  litllw 
faint  and— and  giddy." 

"This  is  the  second  time  fo-dav.     You  alarm  me,  Miss  Rossiter, 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  133 

your  nand  is  as  cold  as  ice,"  holding  it  tightly  for  a  moment,  though 
she  tried  to  draw  it  away.  "  And,  good  heavens,  you  are  trembling. 
Shall  I  call  Madella  or  Pauline?" 

"  No,  no!" — but  she  could  hardly  speak — "  call  no  one;  it  will  pass. 
I  will  go  and  lie  down;  please  leave  me,  Mr.  Chudleigh." 

"  I  hardly  know  how  I  am  to  leave  you,"  he  said,  very  gently;  "  but 
perhaps  if  you  lie  down  that  will  be  best.  I  shall  send  you  up  some 
champagne,  and  you  must  promise  me  to  take  it;  for,  indeed,  I  never 
saw  any  one  look  so  ill." 

"  I  will  take  it  if  you  will  tell  no  one — no  one  at  all,  Mr.  Chudleigh," 
detaining  him  nervously.  "  I  do  not  wish  any  one  to  know  I  am  ill. 
It  will  pass — it  always  passes." 

"Very  well."  he  returned,  reluctantly,  and  then  very  slowly  she 
moved  away.  She  was  not  faint,  for  there  was  no  faltering  in  her  sU-p. 
and  it  was  the  same  graceful  walk  as  ever;  but  should  he  ever  forget 
the  expression  on  her  face?  and  where  had  he  seen  it  before?  _  Then 
suddenly,  with  a  flash,  he  remembered  his  picture,  and  the  piteous, 
terrified  expression  in  Elizabeth's  eyes  as  she  thought  of  her  drowning 
babes,  and  her  very  soul  fainted  for  fear.  Good  heavens!  and  this  ter- 
rified, appalled  look  was  in  Miss  Rossiter's  eyes,  too,  and  yet  it  was  only 
illness  and  not  deadly  peril  advancing  to  meet  her.  What  did  it  mean? 
what  could  it  mean?  and  it  was  with  a  very  grave  face  that  Lauucelot 
entered  the  drawing-room  and  made  apologies  to  his  guests. 

Once  or  twice  during  the  progress  of  that  long  dinner  Mrs.  Chudleigh 
looked  anxiously  at  her  step-son.  She  thought  Launcelot  was  a  little 
ilixlntit  and  not  quite  in  his  usual  spirits.  "  Those  children  have  tired 
you  with  their  chatter,  Launce,"  she  said  once;  but  Launcelot  dis- 
claimed this  with  a  smile. 

No  one  else  at  the  table  noticed  his  gravity.  Dr.  Maxwell  was  talk- 
ing to  Geoffrey  and  Pauline.  Bee,  who  had  very  pretty  manners,  was 
devoting  herself  to  Mr.  Thorpe's  amusement.  Mr.  Thorpe  was  as  quiet 
as  ever,  but  seemed  thoroughly  at  his  ease,  and  he  and  Dr.  Maxwell 
seemed  to  get  on  excellently  together. 

Nothing  was  said  about  Miss  Rossiter  until  the  gentlemen  had  ad' 
journed  to  the  drawing-room,  and  then  Pauline  spoke  to  Launcelol. 

"  Is  it  not  a  pity,  Launce?"  she  said,  in  a  vexed  tone.  "  Huldah 'has 
a  dreadful  headache,  and  is  obliged  to  go  to  bed,  and  all  our  prettiest 
quartets  will  be  lost;"  but  to  her  surprise  her  brother  took  her  by  the 
arm  and  led  her  outside  the  open  window. 

"  I  want  to  speak  to  you  a  moment,  Paul.  I  feel  uneasy  about  Miss 
Rossiter.  I  saw  her  before  dinner,  and  I  thought  she  looked  dreadfully 
ill.  Do  you  think  Doctor  Maxwell  would  prescribe  for  her?  Or  we 
could  send  for  Egerton?"  and  there  was  no  mistaking  Launcelot's  anx- 
iety; but  Pauline  took  it  all  very  coolly. 

"  Nonsense,  Launce,  it  is  only  a  bad  sick  headache:  at  least  Huldah 
said  something  about  being  subject  to  this  sort  of  nervous  attack, 
though  I  don't  believe  we  ever  saw  anything  of  the  kind  before.  I 
think  it  is  ridiculous  of  a  girl  of  her  age  to  talk  of  nerves." 

"  I  do  not  agree  with  you — she  is  very  sensitive;  but  surely,  Paul, 
you  must  have  thought  her  looking  ill?" 

"  Well,  I  can  hardly  say  I  have  seen  her;  the  room  was  quite  dark, 
and  she  could  not  bear  me  to  pull  the  blind  up,  or  to  ask  her  questions. 
Huldah  hates  any  fuss  when  she  is  ill." 

"  It  was  a  very  sudden  attack,"  observed  Lauucelot,  thoughtfully. 

' '  So  the  children  say,     I  went  into  the  school- room  to  question  theHL 


134:  ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS. 

Sybil  says  they  were  all  laughing  together,  and  llmt  TTuld 
Fjuff,  the  gray  kitten,  you  know,  was  mewing  to  be  let  out. 
ried   her  down  the1  corridor.     They   were  in   the  middle  of  a   £ 
lluldah  was  teaching  them,  so  they  waited  impatiently  for  1: 

.  but  to  their  surprise  she  did  not  come,  and  by  and  by  1 
found  her  lying  on  her  bed,  and  complaining  of  intense  headache. 
•  wanted  to  bathe  her  head  \\\il^cau-dc- Cologne  and  water,   but 
Huldah  only  begged  to  be  left  alone.     I  do  not  mean  to  let  moth 
to  her,  because  talking  makes  her  so  much  worse;  and  I  dare  say  sh« 
will  soon  fall  asleep." 

"  The  music  will  not  disturb  her?" 

"  Oh,  no,  sbe  wyill  not  even  hear  it,  at  least  I  think  not.  Oh,  there  is 
Bee  playing  an  accompaniment;  we  must  go  in,  Launce,"  and  Pauline 
disengaged  herself  from  his  detaining  hand,  and  tripped  back  into  the 
room. 

Dr.  Maxwell  took  his  leave  somewhat  early — he  had  a  patient  i 
on  his  way  home— but  Launcelot  induced  Mr.  Thorpe-  to  smoke  a  cigar 
on  the  lawn,  promising  to  walk  with  him  across  the  common. 

"  We  will  bid  good- night  to  the  ladies."  he  said,  "  and  though  I  am 
no  smoker  myself  I  have  a  cigar  that  I  think  you  will  like  particularly, 
Thorpe;  and  as  I  know  you  keep  most  unconscionable  hours,  like  most 
literary  men,  there  is  no  reason  why  we  should  not  enjoy  the  view  from 
the  terrace."  And  to  this  his  friend  made  no  objection,  but  he  pre- 
tended to  grumble  at  Launcelot's  obstinate  refusal  to  admit  him  into  the 
studio.  "  I  thought  I  was  to  see  that  picture  and  write  a  critique  in  the 
*  Imperial  Review,'  "  he  said,  smiling. 

"  Do  you  happen  to  have  your  pocket-book  with  you,  Thorpe?" 

"  Certainly.     May  I  ask  why?" 

"  Because  I  wish  you  to  make  a  memorandum.  I  shall  expect  you  to 
dine  with  us  to-day  three  weeks;  the  picture  will  be  completed'  then, 
and  we  wall  have  our  coffee  in  the  studio." 

"Very  well;  let  me  see,  that  wTill  be  Wednesday/August  3.  I  wrill 
try  not  to  disappoint  you.  Now  shall  we  go  to  the  terrace?  You  are 
right,  this  cigar  has  a  fine  flavor.  I  smoke  very  raicly,  and  never  un- 
less I  can  get'a  choice  cigar;  pipes  were  never  in  my  line." 

"  I  am  glad  you  are  satisfied  with  it,"  returned  Launcelot,  absently, 
but  it  may  be  doubted  whether  he  heard  Mr.  Thorpe's  encomium.  They 
standing  together  on  the  gravel  path  outside  the  drawing-room 
window,  in  a  broad  patch  of  silvery  moonlight:  the  school-room  win- 
dow was  just  above  them.  Was  it  fancy,  or  did  Launcelot  see  a  dark 
figure  standing  near  it?  The  next  moment  he  could  have  sworn  that 

Rossiter's  pale  face  was  looking  down  upon  them,  though  i! 
gone  in  an  instant. 

"  She  wants  air,  and  the  cigar  will  be  unpleasant  to  her,"  thought 
Launcelot,  as  he  took  his  friend's  arm  and  walked  quickly  toward  the 
terrace; '"  she  told  me  once  she  hated  the  smell  of  tobacco,"  and  then 
he  wondered  why  Pauline  had  given  him  the  impression  that  Miss  Ros- 
siter  had  retired  to  rest.  "  Unless  my  eyes  deceived  me  she  was  still  in 
her  black  lace  dress,"  he  said  to  himself;  "  well,  T  will  make;  her  tell 
rnc  all  about  it  to-morrow,"  anil  then  he  roused  himself  for  one  of  those 
scholarly  discussions  in  which  the  soul  of  Mr.  Thorpe  delighted,  but 
thi>  evenil  --ar-cely  as  brilliant  as  usual.  "  To  morrow  I  will 

set  the  H-:d  in  my  fate!"   was  his  last  thought  that  night  before  di 

overcame  him;    but    alas!  circumstances  did  not  favor  this  re 
§oJ.ve 


ONLY     THE     GOVERNESS.  135 

To  his  chagrin  Launcelot  found  on  opening  his  letters  the  next  morn- 
ing that  important  trustee  business  summoned  him  to  Cornwall,  where 
he  was  likely  to  be  detained  for  several  clays,  and  that  it  would  be  neces- 
sary for  him  to  start  that  very  evening. 

"And  I  must  go  up  to  town  by  the  12:15  train,"  he  said,  with  an 
annoyed  air,  "for  I  must  see  Fortescue  and  Burroughs  about  two  or 
three  things;  it  is  an  awful  nuisance.1 ' 

"  I  am  so  sorry,  Launce,"  returned  Mrs.  Chudleigh,  in  a  sympathiz- 
ing voice.  "  It  is  hard  for  you  to  have  that  long  journey  and  all  that 
trouble  on  other  people's  account." 

"  Oh,  I  am  getting  lazy,"  he  replied,  with  an  effort  to  speak  brightly. 
"  By  the  bye,  Madella,  how  is  Miss  Rossiter  this  morning?" 

"  Not  very  well,  I  am  afraid;  her  head  is  still  bad,  and  Pauline  has 
persuaded  her  to  lie  down  again.  I  shall  go  up  to  her  presently  when 
you  are  gone." 

"Will  you  tell  her  how  sorry  I  am  to  hear  of  her  indisposition?"  he 
said,  rising  and  walking  to  the  window.  "  And  Madella?" 

"  Well,  dear?" 

"  If  she  does  not  get  better  you  will  send  for  E^erton." 

"  Certainly,  Launce.  You  need  not  be  afraid;  your  poor  father 
always  said  1  was  always  too  ready  to  send  for  a  doctor. ' ' 

4 '  It  is  generally  wise  to  do  so,  and  so  many  things  begin  with  a  head- 
ache," returned  Launcelot — a  speech  which  did  not  conduce  to  his  step- 
mother's peace  of  mind,  for,  like  many  kind-hearted  people,  she  was 
rather  nervous  about  illness,  though  she  could  be  an  excellent  nurse 
and  had  plenty  of  presence  of  mind  on  emergencies. 

But  Launcelot's  heart  felt  scarcely  as  light  as  usual  as  he  saw  the 
walls  of  the  Witchens  receding  from  his  view;  and  as  he  looked  out  at 
the  flying  hedge-rows  in  the  moonlight  that  night,  his  thoughts  recurred 
persistently  to  the  wide-strained  eyes  and  pale  face  that  had  startled 
him  the  preceding  evening. 

"  It  must  have  been  a  nervous  attack,"  he  thought,  uneasily;  "  that 
fixed,  miserable  look  could  hardly  proceed  from  a  headache."  And. 
then  he  fell  into  a  troubled  doze  and  dreamed  that  the  Witchens  was  on 
fire,  and  that  Miss  Rossiter  stood  at  an  upper  window  wringing  her 
hands.  "No  one  can  save  me!"  he  heard  her  say.  "  It  is  my  own 
fault.  No  one  else  is  to  blame;  it  is  only  fate;"  and  then  she  disap« 
peared  in  the  flames,  and  with  a  groan  of  horror  he  woke. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

"SHE  IS  NOT    TREATING  US  WELL." 

I  hope  your  present  cause  of  distress  is  not  so  bad  but  it  may  be  removed.— Hie 
Antiquary. 
I  love  not  mystery  or  doubt.— Rokeby. 

NEVER  had  the  days  seemed  more  irksome  to  Launcelot  than  those 
he  spent  in  the  old  house  on  the  Cornish  coast,  settling  the  affairs  of  a 
semi-imbecile  minor,  with  his  co-trustee,  a  relative  of  the  afflicted  lad, 
and  trying  to  smooth  matters  for  the  harassed  widow. 

With  his  wonted  energy  he  threw  himself  heart  and  soul  into  the  duties 
of  the  present  hour,  saw  the  various  tutors  who  applied  for  the  post, 
studied  references,  and  finally  engaged  one  whom  he  thought  would  com- 
bine firmness  with  tact,  and  who  would  be  likely  to  restrain  the  fits  of 
passion  to  which  the  poor  young  heir  was  liable;  and  as  soon  as  things 


136  ONLY     THH    (iOYKKXESS. 

were  on  a  proper  footing,  anil  lie  could  conscientiously  free  himself,  he 
.-el  his  face  homeward,  and  counted  tin-  hours  with  boyish  innmt: 
as  though  the  long  journey  would  never  be  at  an  end. 

All  this  time  a  curious hcimir, //  and  a  vague  sense  of  trouble  had  kept 
him  restless.     He  had  never  longed  so  much  to  be  at  home.     ! 
delay  fretted  him;  he  felt  almost  like  a  school-boy  when  he  saw  his  lug- 
gage put  on  the  wagonette  that  was  to  take  him  to  the  station. 

lie  had  heard  twice  from  Mrs.  Chudleigh;  but  though  her  letters 
were  as  thoughtful  and  appreciative  as  ever,  for  the  first  lime  they  failed 
to  satisfy  him;  they  seemed  to  tell  him  everything  but  what  he  most 
wished  to  knowr.  She  scarcely  mentioned  Miss  Rossiter,  and  then  only 
very  briefly.  "  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  Miss  Rossiter  is  still  very  far 
from  well;  indeed,  Pauline  and  I  think  she  looks  extremely  ill;  but  she 
is  very  impracticable  and  refuses  to  see  a  doctor,  so  we  are  obliged  to 
leave  her  alone. ' : 

And  the  second  letter  was  still  more  unsatisfactoiy. 

"  Miss  Rossiter  is  better,  but  she  seems  very  low-spirited  and  unlike 
herself.  Dossie  tells  Pauline  that  she  is  always  crying;  but  she  will  tell 
none  of  us  what  ails  her.  She  only  seems  annoyed  if  we  notice  any- 
thing is  amiss." 

"  There  is  something  troubling  her;  but  I  mean  to  convince  her  that 
her  trouble  is  mine  too,"  thought  Launcelot,  as  he  leaned  baek  against 
the  cushions,  and  looked  out  dreamily  at  the  wide  stretch  of  country. 
"  I  suppose  it  was  that  picture  that  did  the  mischief,  for  I  never  knew 
how  hardly  I  was  hit  until  then.  I  wonder  what  Madella  will  say  when 
I  tell  her?  She  does  not  guess,  I  believe."  And  then  his  In-; 
to  give  a  great  throb.  Would  he  be  able  to  speak  to  her  before  a  few 
hours  were  over?  Would  she  listen  to  him  patiently?  And  what  sort 
of  answer  would  there  be  for  him  in  those  beautiful,  frank  c\ 

He  reached  London  the  next  morning;  but,  as  he  had  a  business  in- 
terview impending  in  Lincoln's  Inn,  he  breakfasted  and  dined  at  his 
club,  and  it  was  not  until  late  in  the  evening  that  his  hansom  drew  up 
to  the  Witchens. 

"  After  all,  there  is  no  place  like  home,"  he  thought,  as  he  handed  the 
cabman  his  fare;  and  indeed,  on  that  July  evening,  the  Wit<-hens  1 
a  pleasant  abode.  A  cool  summer  breeze  was  blowing  acr<»s  Brent  wood 
Common,  rippling  the  leaves  of  the  trees.  He  knew  they  would  all  be 
gathered  on  the  terrace  to  watch  the  sunset.  As  he  drove  in  at  the  gate 
he  could  see  the  red  glow  behind  the  beeches  and  firs  in  Colonel  Madi- 
son's little  plantation.  He  could  easily  have  let  himself  in  at  the  green 
door  in  the  wall,  and  joined  them;  only  the  other  evening  they  had  all 
been  there,  leaning  on  the  low  wall,  and  talking  in  eager  under-tones  of 
Italian  sunsets. 

"  But  I  like  our  English  ones  best,"  Pauline  had  said;  "  there  it 
nothing  like  England."      And  she  had  persisted  in  this  opinion  in 
of  all  Bee's  arguments  to  the  contrary. 

,  of  course  they  were  all  there.     Nevertheless,  he  walked  straight 
into  the  drawing-room,  and  found  to  his  surprise  that  his  step-mother 
'  i  ling  alone,  reading  in  her  favorite  chair  by  the  window,  that  over- 
looked the  great  cedar. 

ave  a  little  exclamation  of  pleasure  when  she  saw  Latin- 

"  Well,"  he,  said,  bending  over  her  affectionately,  "  have  you 
or  me?     I  suppose  the  others  are  on  the  i<  :-ual." 

<lear;  but  I  soon  left  them,  for  I  thought  you  might  arrive, 
tired,  and  there  would  be  no  one  to  speuk  to  you.     We  did  not  wait  din- 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  137 

ner,  Launce,  because  yon  said  things  were  to  be  as  usual;  and  I  knot? 
how  you  dislike  any  fuss." 

"  You  are  quite  right,  Mudella,  and  I  have  already  dined  sumptuously 
at  my  club.  Fa \vcett  dined  with  me."  And  theu  he  briefly  sketched 
the  outline  of  his  day's  business,  his  interview  at  Lincoln's  Inn,  the  let- 
ters he  had  written,  and  the  calls  he  had  paid;  but  all  the  time  he  talked 
his  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  shrubbery  path  that  led  to  the  rosery  and  the 
terrace. 

"  I  think  it  is  no  wonder  you  are  tired,  Launce,"  observed  his  step- 
mother, quietly.  "  You  have  done  two  days'  work  in  one,  and  after 
traveling  all  night  too." 

"But  I  am  not  the  least  tired,"  he  returned;  "  so  you  may  tell  me 
all  your  news.  Your  letters  were  far  too  short." 

"  Were  they?"  she  replied;  but  she  looked  a  little  embarrassed.  "  I 
did  not  want  to  trouble  you  about  home  worries  when  you  had  all  that 
tiresome  business  to  settle.  Do  you  think  that  poor  boy  will  ever  be 
able  to  manage  his  own  affairs?"  But  Launcelot  shook  his  head  in  an- 
swer to  this. 

"  I  doubt  if  he  will  live  many  years;  but  one  never  knows  the  end  of 
these  cases.  His  poor  mother  frets  dreadfully  about  him.  I  think  I 
have  got  the  right  man  for  him.  Colonel  Underleigh  was  much  pleased 
with  my  choice.  We  can  afford  liberal  terms,  but  we  must  have  the 
right  sort  of  fellow.  Gerard  needs  a  firm  hand." 

"  It  is  a  dreadful  responsibility  for  you,  Launce.  I  wonder  you  ever 
undertook  it." 

"  How  could  I  refuse?  Such  an  old  friend,  too.  Never  mind,  Ma- 
della;  my  shoulders  are  broad  enough  for  any  amount  of  burdens. 
Now  tell  me,  what  has  been  wording  you?"  in  a  coaxing  voice. 

"  Oh,  Launce,  not  to-night.  Worries  of  that  sort  will  keep;  and,  in 
spite  of  all  you  say,  you  must  be  tired." 

"  Very  well,  then  you  shall  order  me  a  cup  of  coffee,"  and  as  she 
rang  the  jell  and  gave  the  order,  delighted  to  do  anything  for  her  boy's 
comfort,  he  turned  liis  face  to  the  window  a  moment,  and  a  swift  inde- 
finable expression  passed  over  it,  blotting  out  its  brightness,  but  as  she 
took  her  seat  beside  him  again,  he  said  very  quietly,  "  Now  you  must 
tell  me;  of  course  I  know  it  is  about  Miss  Rossiter. " 

"  How  could  you  guess  that?"  she  returned,  with  some  surprise;  but 
he  only  smiled  faintly,  and  said,  "  Tell  me  all  about  it." 

And  she  began  at  once,  only  too  thankful  to  share  her  perplexities 
with  her  young  adviser. 

"She  is  not  treating  us  well,  Launcelot,"  she  complained.  '"You 
know  how  fond  we  ail  are  of  her;  indeed,  if  she  were  my  own  daughter 
1  could  hardly  have  done  more  for  her." 

"  No,  indeed — she  is  always  speaking  of  your  goodness  to  her." 

"  We  have  never  had  a  jarring  word;  she  has  been  as  docile  and  easy 
to  be  managed  as  a  child,  and  so  kind-hearted.  Even  Bee  says  how 
much  improved  Sybil  is,  and  how  wise  and  bind  Miss  Rossiter  is  in  her 
school-room  discipline.  The  children  are  so  perfectly  happy  with  her; 
dear  little  Dossie  is  always  telling  me  how  much  she  loves  her,  and 
now  she  says  she  must  leave  us,  that  shp.  can  net  possibly  stay  with  us 
any  longer." 

"  Madella!"  but  Launcelot  was  capable  of  no  other  word.  Whatever 
he  had  expected  to  hear,  it  was  not  this.  The  Witchens  without  Miss 
Rossiter!  The  mere  thought  seemed  to  hurt  him  physicallv  and  take 
away  his  breath. 


138  OXI.Y    THE    GOVERNESS. 

"  Did  you  over  hear  of  sueli  a  thing — to  leave  us  without  a  vestige  of 

je,  for  I  can  not  get,  her  to  tell  me  her  reason;  she  only  ci 
though  her  heurt  will  break,  and  says  that  it  is  not  caprice,  hut  that  she 
must  go,  and  yet  in  the  s.-iine  hreath  she  says  that  she  has  never  bi 
happy  anywheie 

"  And  will  she  not  tell  you  her  reason?" 

"  Xo;  she  only  sobs  and  goes  on  in  the  most  trying  way— neither 
Pauline  nor  I  can  get  her  to  speak;  she  really  makes  me  quite  ill. 
Laimeelot.  I  can  do  nothing  with  her.  She  actually  wants  to  leave 
once,  which  is  treating  me  very  badly,  and  throwing  the  little  girls 
on  my  hands,  and  yet  seems  to  have  no  definite  plans,  and  is  quite  friend- 
less. '*' 

A  dark  flush  crossed  Launcelot's  brow.  "  Does  she  say  so,  Ma- 
della?" 

"  Yes;  she  said  more  than  once  that  she  had  not  a  friend  in  the  world 
except  us. ' ' 

"  Oh,  I  am  glad  she  did  us  that  justice." 

"  Yes,  indeed,  I  do  believe  she  loves  us  all;  but  that  makes  it  all  the 
more  extraordinary  for  her  to  leave  us.  I  do  not  know  what  to  think. 
Has  any  one  been  speaking  to  her?  I  mean — do  you  imagine — "  but 
here  Mrs.  Chudleigh  broke  down,  for  it  seemed  sacrilege  even  to  hint 
that  Miss  Rossiter  should  have  met  with  any  annoyance  under  that 
roof:  and  if  a  dim  suspicion  of  the  truth  had  lately  visited  her  her  un- 
bounded trust  and  confidence  in  her  boy  would  have  kept  her  silent — 
the  king  could  do  no  wrong,  and  Launcelot  was  a  king  in  her  eyes — no, 
it  was  not  for  her  to  hint  at  such  things.  "  1  do  not  know  what  to 
think,"  she  finished,  helplessly. 

"  Will  you  tell  me  a  little  more?  I  must  get  to  the  bottom  of  this. 
"When  did  Miss  Rossiter  tell  you  she  must  go? 

"  Yesterday — no,  the,  day  before.  I  have  been  so  worried  I  can 
scarcely  remember  things.  At  first  we  thought  she  was  ill,  and  1" 
her  to  see  a  doctor.  She  did  not  eat  properly,  and  I  am  sure  from  her  looks 
that  she  did  not  sleep  either,  and  then  Dossie  told  us  she  woke  in  the 
night  and  heard  her  sobbing.  Dossie  went  to  her  once,  and  got  into 
her  bed  and  begged  her  not  to  cry;  and  Miss  Rossiter  clung  to  her,  and 
would  not  let  her  go.  Dossie  says  she  put  her  to  sleep  at  last,  stroking 
her  hand  as  she  used  to  stroke  her  father's." 

"Go  on,"  observed  Launcelot,  rather  hoarsely,  and  he  pretended  to 
stir  his  coffee. 

"  Well,  I  spoke  to  her  very  seriously,  and  so  did  Pauline.  I  told  her 
that  it  was  my  wish  that  she  should  see  Mr.  Egerton,  but  she  would  not 
listen  to  reason;  she  persisted  in  saying  that  she  was  not  really  ill,  only 
nervous.  I  was  almost  angry  with  her  at  last,  but  even  then  she  was 
not  shaken." 

"Well?" 

"  Oh,  I  thought  it  best  to  leave  her  alone  after  that.  I  believe  I  did 
not  even  see  her  the  next  day,  and  on  Thursday  morning  as  I  was  do- 
ing some  accounts  in  the  morning-room  she  came  in  and  said  she  must 
;  to  me.  I  thought  her  manner  strange.  She  looked  very  pale 
and  excited,  and  then  without  a  word  of  explanation  she  said  very 
quickly  just  what  I  have  told  you,  that  we  must  not  think  her  ungrate- 
ful for  all  our  kindness,  but  she  hud  made  up  her  mind  to  leave  the 
"Witcnens:  that  she  could  not  stay  any  longer,  and  that  1  must,  liud  an- 
other and  Sybil — at  least  it  was  to  that  etlect,  for  I 
can  not  remember  her  exact  words;." 


O^LY    THE    GOVERNESS.  139 

"  And  what  was  your  answer,  Madella?" 

"  Well,  Launce,  of  course  I  was  excessively  hurt,  and  I  let  her  see  it 
—it  was  so  utterly  unexpected;  but  at  my  first  reproachful  word  she 
broke  down,  and  then,  as  I  said,  it  was  very  trying.  She  was  at  my 
feet  in  a  moment,  kissing  my  hands  in  her  impulsive  way  and  saying 
how  she  loved  us  all,  and  what  a  dear  house  it  had  been  to  her,  and  that 
it  nearly  broke  her  heart  to  leave  us,  but  that  she  must  go;  it  was  her 
duty,  and  nothing  could  keep  her;  and  then  Pauline  came  in,  and  mat- 
ters only  grew  worse,  and  she  was  so  hysterical  at  last  that  we  dared  not 
•ay  another  word." 

"  And  this  was  on  Monday?" 

"  Yes,  and  I  have  not  spoken  to  her  since;  but  last  night  she  sent  me 
a  little  note  by  Pauline.  Pauline  is  so  good  to  her;  she  is  terribly 
grieved  about  it  all,  but  she  will  not  let  me  say  a  word  against  Miss 
Rossiter.  She  declares  that  some  trouble  must  have  come  to  her;  that 
we  never  found  her  unreasonable  or  wanting  in  good  sense,  and  that 
we  must  wait  for  your  return.  '  Launce  will  know  how  to  talk  to  her, 
mother,'  she  said,  more  than  once." 

"  Pauline  is  a  sensible  girl.  May  I  see  that  note,  Madella?"  and  Mrs. 
Chudleigh  handed  it  to  him  at  once. 

"  My  dearest  Mrs.  Chudleigh,"  it  began,  "  I  think  the  hardest  part  of 
all  is  to  know  that  you  are  accusing  me  of  ingratitude  in  your  heart. 
Alas!  I  could  read  that  thought  in  your  eyes.  Yes,  you  who  have  been 
like  a  mother  to  me — you  whom  I  have  loved  and  reverenced  above 
every  other  woman — you  think  that  I  am  acting  unkindly  and  in  caprice. 
Will  you  t  ry  to  believe  me  when  I  tell  you  this  is  not  the  case,  that 
necessity  compels  me  to  leave  you,  though  I  can  not  tell  you  the  reason. 
You  have  given  me  the  dearest  home  I  have  ever  known;  you  have 
made  me  one  of  yourselves  and  treated  me  with  kindness.  How  could 
anything  but  necessity,  therefore,  justify  so  rash  an  act. 

"  No,  my  dearest  and  best  friend,  believe  that  I  am  telling  you  the 
plain,  unvarnished  truth  when  I  say  I  must  leave  you.  I  must;  yet, 
though  the  pain  of  bidding  you  all  good-bye  threatens  to  break  my  heart. 
But  do  not  let  me  go  unforgiven;  let  me  have  at  least  the  poor  consola- 
tion of  feeling  I  am  believed,  and  in  some  measure  trusted.  I  think  if 
you  could  read  my  heart — but  God  only  can  do  that — you  would  pity 
me,  and  there  would  be  no  misunderstanding  then. 
"  Yours  most  gratefully, 

"  HULDAH  ROSSITER." 

"  Well,  Launcelot?"  for  he  still  sat  silent  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
signature,  "  what  do  you  gather  from  that  poor  girl's  letter?" 

'  That  we  have  no  right  to  accuse  her  of  any  ingratitude." 

'  You  mean  that  she  is  unhappy?" 

'  Yes,"  he  returned,  briefly,  "  she  is  very  unhappy." 

'  It  is  very  strange. ' ' 

4  All  mysteries  are  strange,  and  this  is  at  present  a  mystery  to  us, 
Madella.  I  shall  speak  to  her  to-morrow  and  ask  her  to  remain." 

'You?" 

'  Yes,  I;"  but  as  she  looked  timidly  and  doubtfully  in  his  face  he 
said,  quickly — 

"They  are  coming  off  the  terrace;  I  hear  Geoffrey's  roice.  lean 
not  explain  now,  but  somehow  I  fancy  we  understand  each  other.  IB. 
whatever  way  I  act  promise  me  you  will  not  be  vexed  with  me,  Ma- 
della?" 


140  ONLY    TIII-:    (.o\  I'KXKSS. 

"  Xo,"  she  returned,  gently,  "  I  shall  not  be  vexed."     But  i(  ' 
doubted  if  she  really  comprehended  his  meaning.      Vexed  with  L 

rer  been  angry  with  him  in  her  life?     \Vere  not  all  his 
actions  good  and  sound  in 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said,  pressing  her  hand;  and  then  he  went  i 
in  the  dusky  light  and  greeted  his  sister  and  Geoffrey.     The  first  plaee 
showed  hi  ;  was  not  of  the  party;  but  he  took  no  a] (par- 

ent notice  of  this  fact  until  Pauline  drew  him  aside. 

"  You  have  heard  about  Iluldah,  Launce?" 

"  Yes;  Madella  has  been  telling  me." 

"Poor  mother!  it  has  been  such  a  worry  to  her.  I  was  afraid  it 
would  make  her  quite  ill.  We  can  not  understand  Iluldah  at  all. 
Every  moment  she  contradicts  herself;  and  yet  we  can  see  how  unhappy 
she  is." 

"I  don't  think  I  care  to  talk  about  it,  Paul."  Then  Pauline  knew 
from  her  brother's  manner  that  she  had  better  say  no  more,  and  shortly 
afterward  Launcelot  said  he  was  tired  and  would  go  to  bed. 

But  in  spite  of  his  fatigue  it  was  long  before  he  slept.  All  sorts  of 
harassing  conjectures  drove  slumber  from  his  eyes.  Had  she  .u •'.!• 
anything  from  his  manner  lately?  had  it  been  less  guarded  and  friendly 
than  usual?  had  she  taken  alarm  at  the  notion  that  she  had  found 
favor  in  the  eyes  of  the  master  of  the  house?  But  no;  the  most  rigid 
self-examination  exonerated  him  from  any  imprudence  of  this  sort. 
The  most  sensitive  and  prudish  woman  would  not  have  felt  herself 
offended  by  such  gentle,  kindly  attentions.  No;  it  could  not  be  this 
that  was  driving  her  so  reluctantly  from  their  roof.  It  must  be  then 
that  some  sudden  trouble  had  overtaken  her.  And  again  he  thought, 
and  this  time  with  a  conscious  shudder,  of  those  fixed,  miserable 
in  which  lay  the  shadow  of  some  terror  or  unexpected  sorrow.  It  was 
this  trouble  he  was  resolved  to  share,  this  mystery  he  determined  to 
solve:  and  with  this  resolution  he  at  last  fell  asleep. 

The  next  morning  he  heard  from  Pauline  that  the  children  were  learn- 
ing their  lessons  as  usual.  So  he  shut  himself  in  his  studio  on  the  pre- 
tense of  work;  but  he  did  not  even  uncover  his  picture.  He  wrote  a 
few  business  letters,  sorted 'and  tore  up  an  accumulation  of  papers  on 
his  writing-table,  and  that  was  all. 

Miss  Rossiter  made  her  appearance  at  luncheon.  Somehow  he  had 
not  expected  to  see  her  there;  but  he  suppressed  his  feelings  and  thuok 
hands  with  her  quietly. 

She  did  not  raise  her  eyes  or  speak  to  him,  but  passed  quickly  to  her 
ecat,  and  busied  herself  in  attending  to  the  children's  wants. 

It  was  long  before  he  dared  to  steal  a  glance  in  her  direction;  but 
when  at  last  he  did  so  the  change  in  her  appearance  filled  him  with  dis- 
may. 

She  certainly  looked  very  ill.  A  sort  of  dimness  had  crept  over  her 
beauty;  a  dejection  and  paleness  that  filled  him  wilh  pity. 

What  had  become  of  her  pure  and  radiant  bloom?  the  light  sil 
:'i;r  that  had  always  been  so  musical  in  his  ear.-?  the  bright,  quaint 
lies  that  had  enlivened  the  meals?     He  had  never  s 
e  silent,  and  quenched,   and   spiritless,  speaking   to  no  one,  I 
ami  yet  lie  could  not  address  her. 

It  v.  Ing  thai  lire  wo.s  more,  than  usually  talkative.     She  was 

full  of  an  expected  treat  ikat  afternoon.     The  Hamblyns  had  had  a 

il    the  Albert  Hall  offered  them;  an  unusually  at • 
was  to  take  place  that  evening,  and  Nora  hud  written  to  invite  both  her 


ONLY    THE    GOYERNESS.  141 

and  Pauline.  They  were  to  remain  the  night,  and  Lady  HanVoiyn  had 
promised  to  drive  them  home  the  following  afternoon.  Geoffrey  would 
be  tkere  too,  and  sleep  in  town. 

"  It  is  a  very  good  concert:  Christine  Nilsson  is  to  sing,"  observed 
Pauline,  who  was  evidently  trying  to  get  up  an  enthusiasm;  but  her 
remark  fell  rather  flat. 

"  Should  you  like  me  to  take  the  children  for  a  drive?"  observed  Mrs. 
Clmdleigh,  in  a  low  tone  to  Miss  Rossiter;  but  Launcelot  heard  every 
word.  "  I  was  thinking  of  going  into  town,  and  the  t-hops  always 
please  them,  and  you  may  be  glad  of  a  rest  this  afternoon." 

"  Thank  you — you  are  very  good,"  she  returned,  in  a  measured  voice. 
"  You  will  like  that,  will  you  not,  my  dears?"  and  there  was  an  ecstatic 
response  from  Sybil  and  Dossie,  and  then  the  party  broke  up. 

Launcelot  took  his  paper  to  the  studio  window;  his  sisters  came  in 
presently  and  wished  him  good-bye,  and  Pauline  looked  at  him  a  little 
wistfully.  "Poor  little  girl,  she  wonders  why  I  do  not  talk  to  her 
about  her  friend,"  he  thought,  and  then  lie  heard  the  children's  voices, 
as  they  drove  off  for  a  delightful  afternoon  of  shopping  and  bustle. 

The  house  felt  very  silent;  only  he  and  Miss  Rossiter  were  in  it.  He 
was  just  pondering  whether  he  might  venture  to  go  up  into  the  school- 
room, or  whether  he  should  send  her  a  message,  when  to  his  relief  he 
saw  her  slowly  crossing  the  lawn  in  the  direction  of  the  shrubbery,  and 
at  once  made  up  his  mind  to  follow  her. 

It  was  an  intensely  hot  July  afternoon;  scarcely  a  leaf  rustled,  and 
only  the  white  butterflies  seemed  to  enjoy  the  cloudless  sunshine,  but  he 
knew  that  in  the  shrubbery  there  would  be  shade.  There  were  pleasant 
seats  there  under  striped  awnings,  and  in  one  of  the  trees  they  had  slung 
a  hammock;  below,  the  common  would  stretch  burned  and  brown  in 
the  sultry  glare,  but  in  the  winding  walk  there  would  be  coolness  and 
shade,  and  he  would  be  able  to  speak  to  her,  too,  without  interruption. 

He  found  her  seated  under  one  of  the  awnings;  Dossie's  pug  puppy 
was  curled  up  in  the  draperies  of  her  pale-pink  gown.  She  had  her  sun- 
shade up  and  did  not  see  him,  and  was  evidently  so  absorbed  in  her 
own  thoughts  that  even  his  footsteps  were  unheeded;  he  almost  feared 
to  startle  her  too  abruptly  when  he  addressed  her  by  name. 

"How  comfortable  and  cool  you  look,  Miss  Rossiter!"  but  as  she 
lowered  her  sunshade  with  a  faint  expression  of  surprise,  he  saw  at 
once  that  she  was  not  pleased  to  see  him. 

"  I  thought  you  had  gone  with  the  others,  Mr.  Chudleigh,"  she  said; 
and  there  was  marked  embarrassment  and  a  little  annoyance  visible  in 
her  manner.  "  I  thought  Beppo and  I  had  the  place  to  ourselves." 

"  And  you  are  disappointed  at  finding  your  quiet  invaded?  You  are 
not  in  a  talking  mood,  and  you  would  have  preferred  your  own  society? 
I  am  sorry  for  that,  for  " — looking  at  her  steadily — "  I  have  come  here 
for  the  express  purpose  of  talking  to  you." 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

"l  CAN  HELP  YOU,   HULDAH." 

He  writhed— then  sternly  manned  his  heart 
To  play  his  hard  but  destined  part. 

Lord  of  the  Isles. 

Miss  ROSSITER  made  no  reply  to  this,  but  Launcelot  heard  a  faint 
sigh  of  intense  weariness,  and  he  noticed  that  the  hand  that  supported 


142  ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS. 

tin-  sunshade  trembled  slightly,  l)ut  there  was  no  further  protest  oa  her 
purl.     She  hud  no  right  to  send  tlie  muster  of  the  house  away,  ho 
irksome  his  presence  might  be  to  her,  but  neither  would  she  offer  him 
the  leust  eiirourugeinent  to  remain;  so  she  did  not  draw  away  her 
to  make  room  for  him  on  the  seat.     Launcelot  took  no  notice  of  this, 
however.     There  was  a  low  stump  of  a  tree  just  by,  on  which  he  B< 
himself;  the  position  was  convenient,  as  he  could  see  her  face  plainly. 
He  was  soon  sensible  that  this  arrangement  embarrassed  the  young  gov- 
:  she  glanced  at  him  uneasily,  and  then  looked  away. 

"  Mi-s  Koxsiter,"  he  began,  quietly,  and  no  one  hut  he  himself  knew 
how  unevenly  his  heart  was  beating,  "of  course  1  have  heard  • 
thing  from  Mudella.     She  tells  me  that  you  have  made  up  your  mind  to 
e  us." 

She  bowed  her  head  at  this,  as  though  speech  were  difficult,  and 
Launcelot  went  on  in  the  same  smooth,  even  voice. 

"  You  are  unwilling  to  remain  any  longer  as  Sybil's  governess.  Will 
you  answer  me  one  question  frankly?  Has  any  one  in  this  house  given 
you  any  just  cause  for  complaint?" 

*'  No — no!"  she  returned,  eagerly,  and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears. 
' '  You  have  only  been  too  good  to  me,  every  one  of  you.  I  have  never 
met  with  such  kindness  in  my  life." 

"  That  is  well;  then  it  is  no  fault  of  ours  that  is  driving  you  away, 
and  yet  something  has  happened — I  can  see  by  your  face  that  you  are 
in  trouble." 

"  I  am  in  great  trouble,"  was  the  unexpected  answer;  and  then  a  lit- 
tle wildly,  "  but  no  one  can  help  me,  no  one — no  one!" 

"  Are  you  so  sure  of  that?"  he  returned,  gently.  "  What  if  I  tell  you 
that  your  trouble  is  mine,  and  that  I  ask  no  higher  privilege  than  to  be 
allowed  to  share  it?" 

"  But  you  can  not  share  it,"  with  evident  misunderstanding  of  his 
meaning.  ' '  I  can  never  tell  my  trouble  to  any  one;  what  would  be  the 
use,  when  no  one  living  could  help  me?" 

"  I  can  help  you,  Huldah.  As  surely  as  I  have  loved  you  from  the 
first  minute  I  ever  saw  your  dear  face,  so—" 

But  with  a  cry  that  sounded  like  an  exclamation  of  horror,  she  caught 
him  by  the  arm,  and  with  whitening  lips  prayed  him  to  stop. 

"  Why  should  I  stop,  my  dearest?" — and  110  woman  could  have  mis- 
taken the  meaning  of  his  look,  and  indeed  no  living  woman  hud  ever 
seen  those  gray  eyes  dark  and  vivid  with  intense  feeling—"  why  should 
I  not  tell  you  the  truth?"     Then  she  shrunk  away  from  him  and 
ered  up  her  face,  and  he  heard  her  say,  amidst  her  wild  weeping,  that 
In:  must  never  speak  to  her  in  that  way  again,  for  she  could  ne 
his  dearest— never— never ;  and  he  must  not  love  her,  and  then  her 
•  •hoked  with  sobs. 

Launcelot  grew  a  little  pale,  but  his  hand  closed  firmly  upon  a  fold 
of  her  gown  as  though  he  feared  she  might  leave  him,  but  his  voice 
gentle  us  ever.       * 

"  \Vhy  may  I  not  love  you,  dear?" 

use— because — oh,  I  am  a  wicked  girl,  but  I  never  meant  this! 
I  never  dreamed  of  this!     God  knows  I  would  n«t  have  been  so  wicked. 
Mr.  Chudleigh  " — hardly  able  to  bring  out  her  words,  and  he  coul 
how  her  poor  throat  swelled — "  if  it  would  do  any  good  I  would  beg 
your  forgiveness  on  my  knees  for  causing  you  this  pain,  but  you  a 

.-ml  true  that  you  will  soo  r  feeling  fortuch  a  miser 

able  creature,  for  I  am  not — I  am  not  what  you  think  me." 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  143 

"  I  can  not  help  that,"  he  answered,  doggedly,  and  the  set  pin-pose  of 
his  tone  seemed  to  frighten  her;  "  whatever  you  are,  I  can  not  help 
loving  you,  and  I  must  go  on  loving  you  all  my  life." 

"  No — no!"  she  almost  shrieked,  and  she  pushed  his  hand  away,  "  do 
not  touch  me! — do  not  say  anything  like  that  again!  Oh,  I  have  de- 
ceived you  cruelly,  but  I  never  thought  of  this;  God  knows  such  a 
thought  never  came  into  my  mind  until  the  other  day,  and  then  I  knew 
I  must  go.  Mr.  Chudleigh,  neither  you  nor  any  other  man  must  speak 
to  me  of  love,  for  I  am  the  wife  of  a  good  man — the  unhappy  wife,  it 
is  true— but  still  I  am  a  married  woman." 

For  one  moment  Launcelot  shut  his  teeth  hard,  as  though  he  were  in 
mortal  agony;  his  whole  frame  seemed  to  quiver  as  though  he  had  re- 
ceived a  blow,  and  then  with  the  intense  force  of  his  will  he  drove  back 
all  feeling  of  his  own  personal  pain,  and  though  there  was  a  gray  tint 
on  his  face,  and  a  curious  coldness  and  numbness  in  the  region  of  his 
heart,  he  compelled  himself  to  think  only  of  her. 

"  It  is  for  me  to  beg  your  pardon,  although  " — with  a  pathetic  attempt 
at  a  smile — "  I  have  clone  no  moral  wrong,  for  I  could  not  know — how 
could  I? — that  such  feelings  would  be  an  offense  to  you.  Try  to  forget 
what  I  have  just  said,  and  consider  me  your  best  friend.  We  " — with 
a  catch  of  his  breath — "  have  always  been  friends,  and  I  wish  to  help 
you.  You  have  a  husband,  you  say;  will  you  tell  me  his  name?" 

"  If  you  wish  it." 

But  before  she  could  bring  it  out,  Launcelot  sprung  from  his  seat  as 
though  he  had  been  shot. 

"  No,  don't  teil  me,  1  know  it — let  me  tell  you  instead — you  are  not 
Huldah  Rossiter — you  are  Joan— Ivan  Thorpe's  wife!  I  know  it — I 
am  sure  of  it;  oh,  my  God!" 

And  here  he  sat  down  giddily,  and  for  a  little  while  there  was  a  bitter 
flood  of  thoughts  that  choked  the  man's  speech,  while  the  woman,  hum- 
bled and  guilty,  sat  at  his  side  and  wept  until  she  had  no  tears  left. 

But  it  was  she  who  spoke  first. 

"  How  did  you  know  it  was  Ivan?"  she  whispered. 

Then  Launcelot  roused  himself,  and  with  an  inward  prayer  for 
strength  and  self-control,  answered  her  gently: 

"  The  truth  Hashed  on  me  as  I  spoke.  I  remembered  your  face  that 
evening — when  he  came;  you  have  never  been  the  same  since.  Ivan  is 
my  friend,  my  dear  friend;  there  is  no  man  dearer  to  me.  1  saved  his 
life  once— surely  you  owe  it  to  me  to  tell  me  the  whole  truth." 

"I  owe  you  more  than  that,"  she  answered,  humbly;  "I  will  tell 
you  everything.  I  will  answer  any  question  you  wish,  if  you  will  only 
forgive  me,  and  not  hate  me  for  my  deceit.  There  is  nothing  I  will  not 
do  to  show  my  penitence.  Oh,  I  am  so  miserable;  I  never  meant  to  be 
so  wicked.  1  was  not  a  bad  girl;  it  was  only  I  did  not  like  being  mar- 
ried." 

4 '  Wait  a  moment  before  you  explain  things.  Give  me  your  hand.  I 
will  promise  to  forgive  you  if  you  on  your  side  will  promise  something 
in  return.  Give  me  the  right  as  your  husband's  friend  to  help  you  in 
tfliis  crisis  of  your  life  to  the  utmost  of  my  power,  as  though  " — here  his 
voice  shook  a  little — "  as  though  I  were  your  brother." 

The  generosity  of  this  speech  made  her  tears  flow  again,  but  she  gave 
him  her  hand  at  once. 

"  Oh,  how  good  you  are!  you  make  me  more  than  ever  ashamed  of 
myself.  I  never  had  a  brother — yes,  you  shall  haip.  I  will  try  to  foil 
low  your  advice,  I  can  trust  you  wholly." 


144  OKLY    THE    GOYEKNESS. 

"God  forgive  me  if  I  ever  forfeit  that  trust!"  returned  the  young 
man,  fervently,  and  the  expression  of  his  face  made  her  think  of 
Nathanael,  that  Israelite  without  guile,  and  indeed  it  seemed  to  Launee- 
lot  afterward  as  though  his  Agonized  prayer  for  help  had  been  heard, 
and  his  soul  had  received  invisible  strength  for  that  trying  hour, 
though  he  knew  that  his  fairest  earthly  hope  was  quenched— that  the 
world  would  never  look  to  him  quite  the  same  again;  that  the  spring 
and  buoyancy  of  his  youth  were  broken  within  him — he  could  still  look 
at  the  woman  who  had  deceived  him  with  that  gentle,  pitying  smile  of 
full  and  free  forgiveness. 

"  Xow  that  is  settled  between  us,  and  we  are  friends  again;  and  now 
you  must  tell  me  why  you  call  yourself  Huldah  Rossiter,  and  wish  to 
pass  for  an  unmarried  girl. 

"My  name  is  Huldah,'  sue  returned;  "Joan  Huldah— but  I  was 
always  called  Joan.  Oh,  Mr.  Chudleigh,  you  are  so  good  yourself  that 
you  will  not  understand  how  a  girl  could  be  so  wicked,  but  before  you 
judge  me  think  what  it  was  for  me  to  have  no  mother  to  guide  me.  and 
though  my  father  was  kind,  he  was  not  wise;  when  I  was  passionate  he 
only  laughed  at  me,  and  gave  me  what  I  cried  to  possess— and— and— 
though  one  does  not  like  to  say  it  of  a  parent,  his  example  was  not  good, 
and  when  he  died  and  I  went  to  live  with  Aunt  Kezia,  there  was  no 
good  influence  for  me  there." 

"  Your  aunt's  name  was  Mrs.  Templeton,  was  it  not?" 

"  How  did  you  know?— but  of  course  Ivan  or  Rachel  must  have  told 
you;  well,  she  is  dead  now,  so  I  hardly  like  to  speak  of  her  faults,  but 
poverty  had  soured  her,  and  so  perhaps  she  could  not  help  making 
every  one's  life  round  her  miserable.  She  was  a  worldly,  hard  woman, 
and  she  could  say  and  do  cruel  things;  she  seemed  to  grudge  me  the 
bread  I  eat,  and  yet  she  would  not  let  me  go  out  and  work.  I  was  fond 
of  children;  I  loved  teaching,  and  I  wanted  to  be  a  governess,  but  noth- 
ing would  induce  her  to  listen  to  me.  I  only  know  my  life  was  so  un- 
bearable at  last  that  I  thought  I  must  run  away,  and  then  Ivan  came, 
and  he  was  kind  to  me,  and  then  they  both  talked  me  into  promising  to 
marry  him." 

"  You  did  not  love  him?" 

Launcelot  never  raised  his  eyes  as  he  put  this  question. 

"  No,  it  would  not  be  true  to  say  I  loved  him.  Ivan  knew  I  did  not, 
for  I  never  deceived  him,  but  I  liked  him,  and  he  was  so  kind  to  me— 
oh,  so  kind!  and  I  was  willing  at  last  to  marry  him.  I  think,"  with  a 
faint  blush,  "  I  was  very  near  loving  him  by  the  time  he  took  me  home, 
he  was  so  different,  so  much  nicer  then." 

"  You  mean  when  you  were  alone  together." 

"  Yes;  lie  neverscolded  and  found  fault  with  me  then;  my  impulsive 
ways  did  not  seem  to  jar  upon  him.  Oh.  Mr.  Chudleigh,  I  am  telling 
you  the  simple  truth,  as  I  should  tell  my  brother  if  I  had  one,  though  1 
did  not  love  Ivan  as  a  married  woman  ought  to  love  her  husband,  I  was 
so  grateful  to  him  for  earing  for  me  and  taking  me  out  of  my  miserable 
life,  that  I  tried  with  my  whole  heart  to  do  my  duty  to  him.  I  wanted 
to  please  him,  4  wanted  to  make  him  happy,  but  Rachel  came  between 
us." 

"  And  yet  Miss  Thoq)e  is  a  good  woman." 

"  So  I   thought,  and  1  tried  to  be  fond  of  her.     I  was  fond  of  her  ;^ 

bill  'j»»d  people  have  their  faults;  from  the  first   she  was  jealous 

m's  lo\e  for  me.    Oh,  yes,  I  know  what  \ou  are  going  to  say,  that 

she  struggled  against  the  feeling,  but  all  the  siuue  it  was  too  much  for 


OlfTLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  145 

her.  She  had  been  everything  to  him  once,  and  she  could  not  forgive 
me  for  taking  her  place;  from  the  first  she  misunderstood  and  disliked 
me.  Alas,  my  ways  were  not  theirs!  You  may  pity  them  if  you  \vill 
and  I  shall  not  blame  you,  for  they  had  enough  to  bear,  but  I  was  lo  be 
pitied  too." 

"  I  always  knew  that,"  he  answered,  more  to  himself  than  to  her,  as 
she  fixed  her  swollen  eyes  piteously  on  him. 

"If  my  life  with  Aunt  Kezia  had  been  wretched,  my  married  life 
was  intolerable.  I  had  never  learned  reticence  and  self-control,  and 
when  Rachel  spoke  in  her  smooth,  sarcastic  voice,  and  exaggerated  all 
my  little  shortcomings,  and  Ivan  gave  me  severe  marital  lectures,  I  losl 
my  temper  and  got  into  what  Rachel  called  my  Irish  rages,  and  s< 
things  went  on  from  bad  to  worse;  I  could  please  neither  of  them,  and 
every  day  Ivan  grew  colder  and  sterner  in  his  manner." 

"  Yes,  I  understand,"  for  she  had  paused  again. 

"  I  will  not  speak  against  him,  for  his  sins  are  venial  compared  t< , 
mine;  but  if  he  had  only  been  gentle  with  me,  if  he  hud  only  treated 
me  as  a  wife  ought  to  have  been  treated,  I  would  never  have  asked  to 
leave  him.  1  would  have  tried  to  bear  my  life  though  it  was  killing 
me,  but  he  was  bent  on  breaking  my  will.  I  was  his  wife  and  11111*1 
submit;  he  would  not  stoop  to  be  tender  over  me.  Rachel  encouraged 
him  in  this  firmness,  and  between  them  they  nearly  drove  me  mad." 

"  Poor  child,  poor  child!" 

"  You  can  speak  kindly  to  me  even  now?"  and  a  flush  passed  over 
her  wan  face.     "  Oh,  why  was  not  Ivan  like  you?    I  was  not  iucoi 
rigibly  bad;  he  could  have  won  me  by  gentleness.     I  tried  as  a  last  re 
source  to  plead  with  him;  I  reminded  him  that  we  had  never  inisundei 
stood  each  other  before  Rachel  came  between  us,  and  I  begged  him  t 
find  her  another  home.     '  I  will  do  all  I  can  to  replace  her,'  I  said;  '  > 
will  try  to  learn  your  English  ways  and  keep  my  temper.'     Oh,  hov. 
angry  he  was!    He  told  me  to  my  face  that  his  sister,  his  poor  faithfu, 
Rachel,  should  never  be  turned  away  from  his  roof  wlrile  he  had  a  crust 
to  share  with  her,  that  she  was  a  good  woman,  and  that  I  was  not 
worthy  to  compare  with  her,  that  he  was  a  fool  to  have  been  caught  b\ 
my  beauty,  that  I  made  his  life  wretched,  that  he  had  never  known  ar< 
instant's  peace  since  he  had  married  me!    Oh,  for  once  Ivan  was  in  K 
towering  passion." 

"  That  was  because  he  loved  you,  Mrs.  Thorpe." 

She  winced  at  hearing  her  old  name,  and  darted  a  reproachful  glancx 
at  Launcelot. 

"  I  never  told  you  you  might  call  me  that.  Oh,  how  quick  you  are' 
I  would  rather  you  had  called  me  Huldah,  but  never  mind.  Well 
when  Ivan  said  that,  I  told  him  he  must  choose  between  Rachel  and! 
me,  that  nothing  would  induce  me  to  go  on  living  in  the  way  we  were 
doing,  that  I  should  only  hate  him,  that  I  was  beginning  to  do  so  already 
— oh,  you  can  guess  the  rest.  When  I  asked  him  to  give  me  my  liberty 
and  let  me  go  back  to  Aunt  Kezia,  he  just  bowed  his  head,  and  his  face 
was  as  hard  and  impenetrable  as  this  wood,"  striking  her  hand  on  the 
seat — ' '  harder — like  marble — and  so  he  let  me  go. : ' 

"Mrs.  Thorpe,  consider;  could  any  generous  man  refuse  to  release 
you  when  you  told  him  that  living  in  his  house  was  killing  you?  Most 
likely  he  hoped  that  in  a  little  while  you  would  see  your  duty  in  its 
right  light  and  come  back  to  him;  indeed,  I  know  from  his  own  lips 
that  this  is  the  case." 

"  Has  he  spoken  of  me  to  you?    What  has  he  said?    But  no,  do  not 


14<>  ONI  i-ss. 

tt-ll  me  yet;  let  me  he  quick  and  finish.     I  hud  a  nervous  illness,  and 
Auut  Ke/ia  was  frightened,  and  when  I  got  better  she  let  me  take  * 
place  as  companion  to  an  invalid  lady  living  at  Mai vei 
rich  and  had  a  beautiful  place,  and  the  change  was  good  for  me.    1 
to  try  to  forget  all  about  Ivan,  only  Rachel's  letters  kept  the  wounds 
open.     Oh,  if  you  could  only  see  those  letters,  dry,  dogmatic,  virtuous 
letters,  with  not  a  trace  of  sisterly  or  even   kindly  feeling  in  them! 
They  only  widened  the  breach,  they  only  made  me  exult  in  my  free- 
dom." 

"  Poor  Miss  Thorpe;  she  little  thinks  herself  responsible  for  all  this 
misery." 

<l  Ah,  you  take  her  part,"  reproachfully.  "  3Icu  always  do;  but  she 
is  not  a  woman  to  be  beloved  by  her  own  sex.  She  is  too  strong  mind- 
ed; she  has  too  little  pity  for  weakness;  she  has  all  Ivan's  hardness,  but 
she  is  not  capable  of  his  gentleness.  You  are  surprised  at  my  using 
that  word  in  connection  with  my  husband,  but,"  speaking  very  slowly, 
"  he  was  gentle  at  first,  when  he  loved  rue." 

"  And  he  loves  you  still!" 

She  shook  her  head  vehemently. 

"  No,  no! — a- thousand  times  no!  Should  I  have  pulled  off  my  wed- 
ding-ring and  called  myself  by  another  name  if  I  had  not  known  his 
love  was  dead,  and  I  was  only  a  hinderance  and  a  burden?  1  had  to 
thank  Rachel  for  that  knowledge." 

"  Mrs.  Thorpe,  pardon  me;  I  believe  you  are  laboring  under  a  delu- 
sion." 

"  And  1  tell  you  I  am  not!  Can  I  doubt  the  evidence  of  my  own  eye- 
sight? Let  me  explain  it  more  clearly.  I  had  just  heard  of  Aunt 
Kezia's  death,  and  the  kind  friend  with  whom  I  was  living  lay  in  her  last 
illness;  my  future  was  looking  black  enough,  God  knows — and  then 
Rachel's  letter,  the  last  1  have  ever  received  from  her,  was  put  in  my 
hands.  It  was  a  hard,  cruel  letter;  even  you,  who  take  her  part,  would 
own  that.  She  upbraided  me  with  being  a  false  wife,  for  having  taken 
vows  I  had  no  intention  of  fulfilling.  She  said  that  from  that  day  forth 
she  would  have  nothing  more  to  do  with  me;  that  1  had  forfeited 
Ivan's  love,  and  worn  out  his  long  patience.  Oh,  I  can  not  remember 
it  all,  but  that  was  the  gist  of  the  whole— that  they  were  tired  and  sick 
of  me." 

"  Your  sister-in-law  had  no  right  to  interfere  in  the  matter;  but  all  the 
same  you  have  misunderstood  her  meaning.  She  wrote  under  strong 
excitement." 

"  It  did  its  work,  though.  In  a  fit  of  passionate  anger  and  despair  1 
declared  I  would  be  Ivan's  wife  no  longer.  The  terms  of  our  separa- 
tion did  not  satisfy  me.  I  was  still  under  his  control,  he  still  sent  me 
money  from  time  to  time,  and  no  doubt  it  was  by  his  wish  that  Rachel 
wrote  to  me.  I  determined  in  an  evil  moment",  and  quite  heed!' 

quences,  that  I  would  be  free  indeed.     When   Mrs.  Weston  died, 

leaving  me  a  small  legacy,  I  went  to  the  Gov<  try  in  llar- 

ivet  —  we  wore  in    London  then — and  entered  myself  on  the  books 

as  Huldah  Rossiter,  my  mother's  maiden  name,  and  there  I  met  your 

dear  mother." 

heaven*!  do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  M;idella  took  you  with- 
out references?"  and  at  this  question  a  ghost  of  the  old  smile  ci 

•k  a  fancy  i 
other  at  the  first  moment.     1  told  her  I  had  beem  unfortunate;  that  my 


ONLY    THE    GOVElltfESS.  14? 

benefactress  was  dead,  and  had  left  me  a  small  legacy,  but  that  I  had 
no  relation  to  speak  for  me,  which  was  perfectly  true.  I  also  told  her 
of  Aunt  Kezia's  death,  which  had  thrown  me  on  the  world.  She  hesi- 
tated at  first,  but  appointed  a  second  interview,  afid  when  I  saw  her 
again  she  said,  to  my  surprise,  that  it  was  all  right;  a  lady  she  knew 
well  had  been  acquainted  with  Mrs.  Weston,  and  had  heard  her  speak 
with  great  affection  of  a  young  lady  companion.  'To  be  sure,' she 
continued,  '  my  friend  made  one  mistake,  for  she  thought  it  was  a  young 
married  lady,  who  had  been  separated  from  her  husband;  but  of  course 
that  must  have  been  a  mistake;  she  must  not  have  meant  you,  my  dear.' 
'  '  She  certainly  meant  me,'  was  my  reply,  and  to  my  intense  relief 
it  was  decided  that  I  should  come  on  trial  as  Sybil's  governess.  I  told 
Mrs.  Chudleigh  that  I  had  never  had  a  pupil  before,  but  it  appears  she 
and  Bee  were  much  taken  with  my  playing  and  singing,  and  my  French 
accent  was  declared  very  satisfactory." 

"Oh,  Madella,  Madella,"  sighed  Launcelot,  but  he  spoke  only  to 
himself. 

"  And  now  you  know  all  the  rest.  Oh,  how  happy  you  all  made  me! 
There  were  times  when  I  forgot  Ivan,  and  felt  as  though  I  were  a 
child  again.  Do  not  look  at  me  in  that  way,  Mr.  Chudleigh;  indeed, 
they  were  both  happier  without  me — they  had  each  other.  Ivan  and 
his  faithful  Rachel  " — and  here  she  laughed  a  little  hysterically — "  and 
I — I  had  my  freedom." 

"  And  a  remorseful  conscience  to  balance  it." 

"  No,  you  must  not  say  that;  my  conscience  has  not  often  troubled 
me — only  now  and  then — at  the  dance,  perhaps." 

"  And  why  at  the  dance?"  turning  quickly  round  and  fixing  a  search- 
ing look  on  her  face;  but  though  her  color  rose  under  it,  she  would  not 
answer.  How  could  she  tell  him  of  the  womanly  instinct  that  had 
warned  her  the  moment  he  had  looked  at  her  with  those  loving  gray 
eyes  as  he  put  his  arm  round  her  in  the  valse,  that  she  was  playing  a 
dangerous  game  of  which  evil  might  come? 

"Oh,"  she  said,  evading  this,  "you  can  not  think  what  a  terrible 
moment  that  was  to  me  when  I  looked  out  of  the  passage  window  and 
saw  my  husband  crossing  the  court-yard.  If  I  had  not  drawn  back  in- 
stantly he  must  have  seen  me,  for  he  looked  up,  and  then  our  eyes 
would  have  met;  that  would  have  killed  me!"  with  a  shudder. 

"  Forgive  me  for  interrupting  you,  but  I  must  ask  you  another  ques- 
tion. How  is  it  Dossie  never  spoke  to  you  of  the  Thorpes?" 

"  They  did  not  seem  to  make  much  impression  on  her.  She  did 
speak  of  them  once  or  twice;  but  the  name  is  not  an  uncommon  one. 
When  I  left  my  husband  he  was  living  at  Sutton,  and  I  never  connect- 
ed the  Thorpes  of  Riversleigh  with  him  and  Rachel.  I  do  not  remem- 
ber that  Dossie  even  mentioned  Miss  Thorpe,  only  she  spoke  of  a  Mr. 
Thorpe  who  was  a  nice  man,  and  played  with  her.  I  think  she  said  he 
was  quite  old;"  but  here  she  hesitated  and  turned  away.  "  I  think- 
that  is,  I  thought— Ivan  did  look  much  older. ' ' 

"  No  doubt,  trouble  has  aged  him.  Whatever  you  may  believe,  Mrs. 
Thorpe,  your  desertion  has  nearly  broken  his  heart.  A  more  lonely 
man  does  not  live  than  Ivan  Thorpe." 

She  started,  and  her  face  worked  with  some  strong  emotion;  but  the 
next  moment  she  controlled  herself. 

"I  think  it  is  you  who  make  a  mistake  now, "  she  returned,  very 
quietly.  "  Ivan  is  not  the  man  to  feel  lonely;  besides,  he  has  Rachel." 

"  A  sister  is  not  like  a  wife.    -Why  will  you  not  believe  me?    I  know 


148  ONLi    THI-:   <.OYI:I;NTESS. 


husband  well,     lie  ha-  never  ceased  to  love  you,  and  ia  spit*  of 
his  anger  lu-  \vanls  you  back." 

"  But  not  no\v.  Mr.  t'hudleigh.     You  forget;  if  you  know  Ivan,  you 
know  him  to  be  a  man  of  narrow  views  and  rigid  on  all  points  of  honor. 
h  a  one  likely  to  forgive  a  woman  who  has  thrown  off  her  re- 
sponsibilities ami  has  passed  in  society  as  an  unmarried  girl?" 

"  He  will  find  it  difficult  to  forgive,  certainly.  No  doubt  his  anger 
will  be  bitter  and  hard  to  bear,  but  if  you  are  patient  and  humble  your- 
self—" 

"I  humble  myself!"  —  and  here  he  saw  all  her  beauty  change,  and 
her  eyes  flash  with  scorn,  but  before  she  could  say  more  he  took  her 
hands  and  held  them  tightly. 

"  Never  mind  all  that.  You  want  to  be  good,  I  am  sure  you  do,  and 
Madella  and  I  will  help  you;  only  trust  us,  and  do  not  fear  to  follow 
our  advice.  You  are  not  a  coward;  you  know  when  people  do  wrong 
they  deserve  to  suffer,  and  you  have  done  very  wrong,  for  you  have 
sinned  against  the  truth." 

'  '  Yes,  I  have  done  very  wrong  '  '  —  and  at  that  gentle  rebuke  all  her 
pride  fell  from  her  —  "  but  I  did  not  mean  to  be  wicked.  I  only  wauled 
my  freedom." 

"  You  can  not  have  that  unless  God  thinks  fit  to  take  your  husband; 
no  human  power  can  free  you  from  those  solemn  vows,  which  it  is  now 
your  duty  to  fulfill.  No,  do  not  let  us  argue;  you  are  exhausted,  and  I 
can  talk  no  more.  Remember  your  agreement:  you  have  accepted  us  as 
your  friends  and  guardians.  Under  our  roof  you  are  safe;  rest  quietly 
and  think  over  what  I  have  said,  and  leave  every  thing  else  in  my  hands. 
I  will  talk  to  Madella  and  to  your  husband." 

"  Oh,  no!  no!    Not  my  husband!     You  will  not  be  so  cruel!" 

"  You  do  not  know  how  cruel  I  can  be.  I  mean  to  be  cruel  for  your 
own  good.  I  mean,  God  helping,  to  make  you  a  happy  woman  in  spite 
of  yourself;  surely  you  can  trust  me?" 

"  Do  not  tell  Ivan,"  she  whispered;  but  he  only  looked  at  her  with  a 
grave  smile.  "  May  I  not  go  away  first?"  but  he  shook  his  head  at  this 
childish  speech. 

"  Where  would  you  go,  my  poor  child?  Do  you  suppose  other 
women  would  be  so  foolish  as  Madella,  and  take  you  into  their  homes? 
No,  promise  me  faithfully  that  you  will  stay  quietly  here  and  obey  us 
—  I  mean  obey  Madella."' 

"  Ah,  I  must  promise,  I  suppose  "  —  in  a  despairing  tone;  "  the  thought 
of  going  out  in  the  world  frightens  me.  I  am  not  brave,  I  am  a 
coward.  I  am  afraid  of  making  mischief  wherever  I  go.  Oh,  do  you 
think  Mrs.  Chudleigh  will  keep  me  when  she  knows  all?  She  is  very 
sweet,  very  loving,  but  there  are  some  things  that  good  women  lind  it 
hard  to  forgive." 

"  I  think,"  he  returned,  steadily,  "  that  you  will  have  much  to  bear; 
in  sowing  the  wind  you  must  expect  to  reap  the  whirlwind.  Madella 
will  not  be  pleased—  in  fact,  she  will  be  sadly  ruffled.  We  must  wait 
for  her  good  heart  to  assert  itself,  and  you  must  be  patient." 

"  Shall  you  speak  to  her  to-night?"  " 

"  No,  not  to-night,  "  and  there  was  a  muffled  tone  of  exhaustion  in 
Launcelot's  voice;  "  I  must  get  my  thoughts  into  shape  first.      I  am 
_r  out.     Will  you  tell  Madella  that  I  may  possibly    lecp  at  my  club 
if  I  am  detained  late?     Do  not  keep  the  house  open  after  eleven." 

"  You  are  going  out,  and  you  do  not  look  well;  in  fact,  you  look 
very  ill." 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  149 

"  That  is  not  of  the  smallest  consequence,  thank  you,"  rather  curtly. 
"  Will  you  let  me  wish  you  good-night  now?"  and  as  she  stood  looking  at 
kirn  rather  ruefully  he  took  her  hand  and  pressed  it  kindly,  and  then 
walked  quickly  through  the  shrubberies  in  the  direction  of  the  studio. 

But  as  each  step  took  him  further  from  her,  and  the  sound  of  her  sad 
musical  voice  was  no  longer  in  his  ear,  a  thick  darkness  seemed  to  settle 
upon  his  spirits,  and  those  words  of  unutterable  bitterness  came  to  his 
recollection : 

"  Wherefore  is  light  given  to  him  that  is  in  misery,  and  life  unto  the 
bitter  in  soul,  which  long  for  death  but  it  cometh  not,  and  did  for  it 
more  than  hid  treasures,  which  rejoice  exceedingly  and  are  glad  when 
they  can  find  the  grave?" 

"They  are  grand  words,  and  they  seem  to  fit  somehow,"  thought 
Launcelot,  as  he  sat  down  wearily  in  his  place. 


CHAPTER  XXin. 

UNDER  MIDNIGHT  SKIES. 
He  forgot  himself  where  he  could  be  of  use  to  others.— SCOTT. 

Something  there  yet  remains  for  me  in  this  world,  were  it  only  to  bear  my  sor 
rows  like  a  man  and  to  aid  those  who  need  my  assistance. — Anon, 

IN  all  the  days  of  his  happy,  vigorous  life  Launcelot  had  never  passed 
such  an  hour  as  that  after  he  had  closed  the  studio  door  and  sat  down 
to  look  his  trouble  in  the  face. 

The  severe  tension,  the  almost  intolerable  strain  during  that  long  con- 
versation, had  tried  his  powers  of  endurance  to  the  utmost,  and  utter 
collapse  of  all  mental  effort  was  the  result.  For  a  long  time  he  could 
only  sit  there  holding  his  head  in  his  hands,  and  asking  himself  with  a 
sort  of  bewilderment  of  wonder  why  of  all  men  such  a  thing  should 
have  happened  to  him. 

Hitherto  he  had  compelled  himself  to  think  only  of  her,  but  now  he 
had  leisure  to  consider  his  own  void  and  loss.  It  was  not  only  the  fact 
that  the  woman  he  has  so  passionately  loved  could  never  be  his  wife, 
though  that  knowledge  caused  anguish  to  his  manhood,  but  his  faith 
had  also  suffered  such  shipwreck,  so  that  for  a  little  while  he  could  only 
think  what  a  miserable  affair  this  life  was,  and  what  a  poor  thing  human 
nature  could  be  when  the  heavenly  props  had  been  removed. 

Launcelot  was  by  no  means  blind  to  his  own  merits.  He  knew  far 
better  than  others  that  his  standard  had  been  a  higher  one  than  that  of 
most  men. 

Intense  self-respect  had  been  his  safeguard,  and,  in  spite  of  the  hot 
blood  of  youth,  had  carried  him  triumphantly  through  many  a  tempta- 
tion. At  one  time  of  his  life,  in  his  under-graduate  days,  he  had  not 
been  more  thoughtful  than  other  young  men  of  his  age;  but  even  then 
pride  and  a  certain  wholesome  cleanliness  of  nature  had  left  him  straight. 

But  the  sense  of  his  own  uprightness  and  rectitude  had  not  made  him 
censorious.  He  was  lenient  to  other  men's  feelings,  making  all  allow- 
ances for  the  weakness  of  human  nature.  He  never  despised  the  }routh- 
ful  prodigals  that  he  saw  devouring  husks  and  making  believe  to  enjoy 
them.  He  only  longed  to  show  them  the  truer  pleasure  of  the  higher 
life.  He  knew  himself  to  be  happier  than  his  fellows,  because  he  had 
kept  innocency  and  done  the  thing  that  was  right. 

But  though  the  broad  level  of  Ms  charity  included  all  sorts  and  con 


150  n.\M      ! 


ditions  of  men.  lie  was  so  1',-ir  true  to  his  own  eon\  '  he  would 

have  his  future  wife  aa  pure  :m«l  perfect  as  an  Knglish  girl  should  he. 
Susceptible  as  he  was  to  beauty,  lie  eared  more  that  tin  hrinc 

should  be  fair  and  well  garnished.  On  this  point  he  had  ever  been 
fastidious. 

"  You  will  never  find  a  girl  to  suit  you,  Launce,"  his  step-mother  had 
said  to  him,  when  lie  had  been  bewailing  his  bachelor  condition,  and 
narrating  to  her  with  much  humor  his  two  matrimonial  attempts. 
"Ah,  it  is  all  very  we;l,  Idling  me  about  your  fancy  for  Dora  lia>,h- 
leigh.  She  is  a  ;1,  and  thoroughly  charming;  but  if  sin 

accepted  you  instead  of  Colonel  Glynn,  it  would  have  been  a  short  en- 
gagement. You  never  could  have  spent  your  life  with  a  girl  who  had 
simply  no  mind." 

"  I  dare  say  you  are  right,  Madella,"  he  answered,  as  though  struck 
by  the  truth  of  this  remark.  "  But  all  the  same,  she  was  a  dear  little 
thing,  and  I  was  very  fond  of  her." 

"  I  tell  you  what,  Launce,"  Bee  said  to  him  one  day,  when  tir 
iect  was  on  the  /'^/"N  and  he  had  been  airing  a  1'ew  of  his  opinions,  "  you 
will  never  meet  the  girl  you  want  in  society.  You  are  very  peculiar 
and  quixotic.  I  don't  believe  you  will  ever  marry  unless  you  train 
your  future  wife  from  a  child,  aud  inoculate  her  with  all  your  extraor- 
dinary notions." 

"  That  is  a  good  idea  of  yours,"  returned  Luuncelot,  coolly.  "  What 
dp  you  say,  Madella?  Could  you  find  a  pretty  little  orphan  of  gentle 
birth,  and  no  undesirable  relatives,  who  could  be  my  pupil  from  a  ten- 
der age?  I  dare  say  Bee's  plan  would  work  well,  unless  the  orphan  re- 
fused to  marry  me,  and  shunted  me  off  for  a  younger  fellow." 

Ah,  well,  tUey  had  often  made  themselves  veiy  merry  at  his  expense; 
but  now,  as  Launcelot  sat  reviewing  his  troubles  gloomily,  it  did 
hard  that  he,  of  all  men,  should  have  met  with  such  an  experience  — 
that  he,  Launcelot  Chudleigh,  should  have  made  love  to  a  married 
woman,  and  she  the  wife  of  his  dearest  friend.  No  wonder  the  shock 
had  staggered  him.  Innocent  as  he  knew  himself  to  be,  the  mere  fact 
of  the  case  sickened  him. 

And  then  he  wondered  why  there  was  no  anger  in  his  heart  against 
Joan,  but  only  a  great  pity  and  tenderness,  and  a  longing  to  set  her 
right  with  the  world;  and  he  set  himself  to  consider  tin  •  umed 

to  him  a  great  problem,  and  he  thought  most  men  in  his  circumstances 
would  have  felt  themselves  stirred  to  bitter  wrath. 

And  after  a  great  deal  of  hard  thinking  which  he  carried  forward  on 
Brentwood  Common  —  for  the  studio  walls  seemed  to  stiiic  him  a 
time,  and  fresh  air  had  always  been  a  necessity  to  him  in  unhappy 
moods  —  he  arrived  at  the  conviction  that  it  was  her  child-liko  inn< 
that,  in  spite  of  her  long  deception,  made  her  still  so  winning  to  him; 
and  though  he  would  not  own  it  to  his  conscience,  he  knew  dee])  down 
in  his  heart  that  if  she  were  only  free  he  would  gladly  make  her  his 
wife  still.     But  he  shuffled  off  these  thoughts  hastily,  and  labeled  them 
"  Dangerous;"  for  strong  men  drown  when  the  waves  of  passion  rise 
high. 

If.'  could  see  th'!  scared,  troubled  look  on  her  face  as  she  pushed  away 
his  hand—  "  Do  not  touch  me;  du  not  look  at  me  in  that  way  "—as 
though  her  wifely  instincts  had  taken  alarm;  and  then  he  could  hear 
nl  break  in  her  voice;,  and  see  the  childish  quiver  of  her  lip  —  "  Oh, 
1  am  a  wicked  girl,  but  I  never  dreamed  of  this!  (Jod  knows  1  would 
not  have  becu  so  wicked."  No,  with  nil  her  foolishness  and  reckless- 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  151 

ness  and  blind  disregard  of  duty,  he  knew  that  Ivan  Thorpe  could  trust 
his  wife. 

It  had  been  her  utter  unconsciousness  and  fresh  gayety  that  had  won 
him  first,  and  not  her  beauty.  She  had  been  so  different  from  other 
girls;  so  altogether  charming.  And  then  he  thought,  with  a  groan,  of 
those  sittings,  and  how  he  would  look  up  from  his  easel  and  seethe 
gleam  of  fun  in  the  Irish-gray  eyes,  and  a  little  pout  of  the  fresh  lip-; 
that  had  answered  one  of  his  dry  speeches.  Oh,  he  had  never  met  ;mv 
one  like  her.  And  now  she  could  be  nothing  to  him,  or  he  to  her,  unlil 
they  met  in  that  land  "  where  there  shall  be  neither  marrying  nor  giv- 
ing in  marriage,"  and  theirs  should  be  the  bright  satisfaction  of  the 
angels  of  God. 

"  Shall  I  never  get  over  it?  And  yet  men  always  do,"  he  thought; 
for  all  his  bright  spirit  was  quenched  and  hopeless,  and  the  margin  of 
the  future  looked  dry  and  arid  as  a  desert,  and  as  yet  the  angelic  visitant 
Hope  had  not  offered  her  sweet  ministry.  By  and  by  he  would  see  the 
way  to  his  duty  and  do  it  like  a  brave  man  for  noblesse  <>Mi(/c.,  but  just 
now  he  was  only  weak  enough  to  bemoan  himself  like  a  sick  girl.  And 
yet,  though  he  knew  it  not,  his  guardian  angel  held  his  hand  firmly,  for 
no  good  man  ever  suffers  alone;  neither  is  the  wounded  warrior  left  in 
the  midst  of  the  battle  to  hew  his  way  through  the  phalanx  of  his  foes 
unaided.  "  If  thou  faint  in  the  day  of  adversity  thy  strength  is  small," 
said  the  wise  man.  Launcelot's  strength  was  only  latent,  having  suf- 
fered temporary  paralysis. 

He  \vas  conscious  presently  by  the  refreshing  coolness  of  the  air  and 
the  absence  of  all  glare,  that  the  evening  had  come,  and  on  looking  at 
his  watch  was  astonished  to  find  that  four  hours  had  passed,  and  that  it 
was  eight  o'clock.  They  were  at  dinner  at  the  Vvitchens,  and  his 
message  had  been  given;  so  for  this  one  evening  he  was  free— free  from 
his  step-mother's  loving  scrutiny,  and  the  anxious  questions  that  would 
follow. 

He  had  wandered  a  good  way  across  the  common,  and  was  sitting  on 
a  bench  underneath  a  May-tree;  all  around  him  lay  the  open  expanse 
of  broken  ground  thick  with  gorse  and  blackberry-bushes,  and  toward 
the  horizon  was  piled  up  a  glory  of  sunset  clouds.  The  solitude,  the  in- 
tense silence  so  healing  to  some  natures,  oppressed  Launcelot  even  in 
his  sorrow,  and  a  longing  for  fellowship,  for  unspoken  sympathy,  even 
the  sympathy  of  a  dog,  seemed  to  draw  him  to  the  focus  and  heart  of  life 
in  the  great  hum  of  London;  to  his  active  mind  movement  was  irresisti- 
ble, and  he  never  thought  more  clearly  and  to  the  point  than  in  a 
crowd. 

To  London,  therefore,  he  set  his  face,  and  as  he  walked  with  his  head 
a  little  thrown  back,  and  his  eyes  fixed  wearily  on  the  distance,  people 
looked  after  him  curiously,  thinking  that  he  was  walking  for  a  wager, 
for  there  was  a  set  purpose  in  his  face,  and  a  gravity  that  might  mean 
nnything,  from  a  lost  lawsuit  to  a  murder. 

He  slackened  his  pace  when  he  got  to  Piccadilly,  for  he  became  all  at 
once  conscious  by  his  relaxed  muscles  that  he  was  in  need  of  food.  Still 
the  idea  of  dinner  gave  him  a  feeling  of  nausea  that  there  was  no  get- 
ting over;  so  he  went  into  a  restaurant  and  had  a  couple  of  glasses  of 
good  claret  and  a  roll,  and  this  relieved  his  faintness  and  disposed  him 
to  renewed  exercise. 

The  constant  noise  of  vehicles,  so  far  from  fretting  his  nerves,  seemed 
a  sort  of  lullaby  to  his  pain,  and  he  was  almost  sorry  when  they  ceased 
and  the  silence  of  night  settled  down  on  the  great  metropolis. 


152  ONLY    THK 

He  did  a  great  deal  of  hard  thinking  and  Inid  up  a  store  of  valuable 
resolutions  for  future  di:  he  walked  through  the  West  Knd, 

seeing  many  strange  sights  as  lie  went.     Now  and  tlien  a  block  of  foot 
-  coming  out  of  a  theater  door  brought  him  to  a  standstill, 
and  he  leaned  against  a  pillar  and  looked  at  the  young  and  old 
that  passed  him,  and  thought  how  every  one  had  his  story,  and  won 
dercd  if  any  heart  among  them  were  as  heavy  as  his. 

By  and  by  he  found  himself  on  the  Embankment,  and  sat  down  for  a 
long  time  near  Cleopatra's  Needle,  looking  across  the  dark  riveis  and 
asking  himself  all  manner  of  questions. 

But  he  was  not  tired  yet,  so  he  determined  to  make  a  night  of  it;  he 
had  always  promised  himself  that  he  would  walk  down  Whitecliapel 
Road  and  Stepney  toward  the  small  hours  of  the  morning,  and  when 
should  he  get  such  a  chance  again?  So  he  shook  himself  into  fresh 
energy,  and  started  off. 

He  had  the  great  wide  road  almost  to  himself,  though  now  and  then 
he  met  a  shuffling  figure  or  two,  or  encountered  a  miserable  group  on  a 
doorstep.  As  he  passed  the  London  Hospital  some  men  cany  ing  a 
rough  sort  of  stretcher  turned  in  at  the  gate,  and  he  waited  involuntarily 
to  see  the  ghastly  load  lifted  off  it. 

"  It  was  one  of  them  Lascars  did  it,"  he  heard  one  hulking  fellow  say 
to  another.    "  It  is  only  that  sort  of  breed  that  stabs  a  man  in  the  back, 
•with  a  choice  oath  to  follow 

Launcelot  stood  for  a  long  time  looking  up  at  the  dark,  massive  build- 
ing. What  suffering  bodies  and  souls  there  must  be  within  those 
walls.  Hundreds  Ijang  in  those  great  wards  trying  to  court  a  few  hours' 
forgetfuluess  of  their  pain  "  God  bless  the  men  and  women  who  work 
there!"  he  thought,  as  he  walked  quietly  on,  and  something  gentle 
seemed  to  loose  the  tight  band  round  his  heart. 

After  a  time,  when  he  had  gone  through  the  length  and  breadth  of 
this  eastern  city  of  millions,  and  had  been  wrung  with  pity  to  know 
that  even  night  has  no  rest  for  some,  and  that  dark  deeds  are  done  in 
dark  hours,  when  the  prince  of  evil  and  his  satellites  hold  high  revel, 
he  came  presently  to  another  bridge,  and  here  the  loneliness  and  the  sight 
of  the  black,  sullen  river  made  him  shiver  and  wish  himself  at  home. 

He  had  just  exchanged  greetings  with  a  policeman,  who  was  glad  to 
have  a  word  with  an  honest  man,  and  now,  as  he  advanced  toward  the 
center  of  the  bridge,  he  became  aware  that  a  man  in  fustian  clothes  was 
standing  with  his  back  to  him  leaning  against  the  parapet. 

Most  men  who  carried  a  watch  in  their  pocket  would  have  been  glad 
to  have  given  him  a  wide  berth  in  so  lonely  a  spot,  but  Launcelot  was 
not  one  of  these. 

He  passed  close  to  the  man,  and  perceiving  utter  dejection  in  his  atti- 
tude, and  not  believing  it,  as  half  the  wori'd  would  have  done,  to  be  due 
to  the  influence  of  beer,  he  said,  not  cheerfully,  for  cheerfulness  was 
not  possible  to  him  this  evening,  but  kindly  enough,  "  Good-night;  you 
and  I  seem  to  have  the  bridge  to  <>  You  must  find  it  chilly 

standing  there?"  and  then  would  have  passed  on,  fearing  the  nature  of 
his  ;ui.swe,r;  but  the  man  turned  slowly  and  heavily  round,  and  tl, 
pression  of  his  face,  as  the  gas-light  fell  on  it,  made  Launcelot  keep  his 
place. 

"  Yes,  it  is  cold;  it  will  l)e  colder  by  and  by."  And  then,  in  rather 
a  dazed  wav,  "I  never  expected  to  hear  anyone  bid  me  good-nighf 
again;  thank  you,  in 

"  Have  you  no  one  belonging  to  you,  then?"  asked  Launcelit,  quiet- 


OHLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  153 

ly,  resting  his  elbows  on  the  parapet,  with  an  evident  intention  of  pro- 
longing the  conversation.  The  man  looked  a  miserable  object;  his 
fustian  jacket  was  ragged,  and  his  haggard,  unshorn  appearance  was  not 
much  in  his  favor,  but  his  voice  had  a  country  accent,  and  he  spoke 
civilly  enough. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  have  my  wife  and  the  little  mis,"  he  answered,  in  a  limp 
sort  of  way,  "  but  they  will  get  on  better  without  me.  Look  Mere,  sir 
— for  I  see  you  are  a  gentleman — I  was  just  about  making  up  my  mind 
to  pitch  myself  over  this  'ere  bridge,  and  have  done  with  the  whole  thing, 
when  you  comes  along,  and  '  Good-night,'  says  you  in  a  friendly  tone, 
and  somehow  I  don't  seem  to  have  the  stomach  for  the  job  now." 

"  Why,  of  course  not,  you  would  not  be  such  a  fool;  no  man  in  his 
senses  would  think  of  doing  such  a  thing." 

"  Perhaps  I  ain't  in  my  senses,  then;  anyhow  I  ain't  been  drinking, 
for  neither  bit  nor  sup,  except  a  drop  of  cold  water,  has  passed  my  lips 
this  day;  but  all  the  same,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  that  speech  of  yourn, 
I  should  have  been  a  dead  man  by  now." 

"  Then  there  would  have  been  two  of  us;  for  I  should  certainly  have 
jumped  in  after  you,  under  the  notion  of  saving  you,  and  as  I  am  hard- 
ly an  average  swimmer,  we  might  neither  have  reached  the  bank  alive." 

"  Do  you  mean  you  would  have  troubled  your  head  about  me?  There 
are  not  many  gentlefolks  like  you,  lam  thinking;  most  of  'em wouldn't 
care  a  jot  if  a  poor  fellow  chose  to  throw  himself  overboard." 

"  You  are  wrong  there,  but  we  won't  argue  about  it;  you  are  down 
upon  your  luck  evidently.  I  fancy  from  your  speech  that  you  are  from 
the  country. ' ' 

"  Ay,  so  I  be,  and  I  were  a  fool  ever  to  come  up  to  Lunnon;  I  had 
tidy  wages,  and  a  wholesome  place  for  the  wife  and  little  uns,  but  there 
we  could  not  bide  content.  The  missus  she  was  always  worriting,  and 
wanting  to  do  better,  and  a  smart  sort  of  chap  comes  to  our  village — 
'  Go  to  Lunnon,'  says  he — '  Lunnon  is  the  market  for  work  ' — so  we 
just  hearkened  to  him  and  packed  up  our  traps." 

"  Oh,  you  made  a  mistake  there." 

"  Don't  I  know  it,  sir?"  rather  fiercely.  "If  you  ever  meet  such 
another  fool  on  this  sort  of  errand,  tell  him  for  God's  sake  to  bide  where 
he  is.  '  Don't  come  up  to  Lunnon,  keep  in  your  own  village,'  say  that 
to  him.  Why,  we  wouldn't  have  kept  a  pig  in  the  place  they  put  my 
missus  and  me;  and  as  for  work,  why,  I  have  pretty  nigh  gone  on  my 
knees  for  work—'  There  are  too  many  of  you  already,  and  we  can't  give 
employment  to  half, '  that  is  what  they  say.  I  tell  you  what,  sir,  I  have 
sat  down  and  cried  like  a  child,  when  the  dock  gate  has  been  shut 
against  me." 

"  Where  are  your  wife  and  children  to-night?" 

"  They've  took  'em  in  at  the  casual,  because  my  missus  looked  bad- 
dish,  and  the  baby  too — there  are  three  ot  'em,  for  we  have  buried  four 
since  we  came  up*  to  Lunnon,  and  Sal— that  is  the  eldest  girl — has  gone 
to  the  bad." 

"  And  so  you  wanted  to  end  your  troubles,  though  in  reality  you 
would  only  have  begun  them  by  laying  a  fresh  burden  on  your  wife'?" 

"  She  will  do  better  without  me;  she  would  beg  her  way  back  to  her 
own  place,  and  get  them  to  take  her  in  at  the  house — not  that  I  would 
ever  have  thought  of  doing  such  a  thing  if  I  had  not  been  pretty  nearly 
starving — not  a  mouthful  yesterday,  and  only  a  crust  or  two  the  day 
before;  and  I  was  that  desperate  I  wanted  to  steal  a  loaf  from  »  baker's 


151  ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS. 

shop,  just  to  get  sent  to  jail  and  have  a  week  of  full  meals,  but  someliovr 
L  could  not  do  it.'' 

"  Tlmnk  (Jod!  for  that  shows  you  to  be  an  honest  man;  and  you 
must  thank  Him,  too,  that  you  wore  saved  from  the  sin  of  self-destruc- 
tion. 15ut  there.  I  can't  preach  to  a  starving  man;  how  soon  do  you 
think  the  world  will  be  awake,  and  you  and  I  can  get  some  break- 

The  man's  hollow  eyes  brightened  with  a  dim  sort  of  light. 

"  Betty  Stone  is  the  earliest — she  will  be  down  at  the  docks  in  another 
dour  or  so,  and  she  has  prime  coffee;  it  is  getting  light  already." 

"  Sol  see." 

Launcelot  shivered  slightly,  for  he  felt  not  only  the  new  day,  but  a 
new  phase  of  his  existence  had  begun;  and  vet,  though  he  did  not 
reali/e  it,  the  deed  of  mercy  had  already  marked  it  as  a  golden  day  in 
the  annals  of  heaven.  But  the  time  had  passed  for  brooding,  and  a  sick 
feeling  of  exhaustion,  as  though  nature  were  overstrained,  made  him 
sink  on  the  stone  bench  and  lay  his  head  back  against  the  parapet.  He 
would  rather  have  been  silent,  but  a  sense  of  duty  made  him  rouse  him- 
self and  draw  from  the  man,  who  was  not  loath  to  tell  him,  the  whole 
of  his  miserable  story. 

"After  all,"  thought  Launcelot,  presently,  "what  are  my  troubles 
compared  to  this  poor  fellow's?  His  sin  has  not  been  very  heinous; 
discontent  and  a  wish  to  better  his  condition  have  brought  him  to  this 
pass,  and  yet,  like  Esau,  '  he  finds  no  place  for  repentance.'  He  would 
willingly  go  back  to  his  cottage  and  small  wages,  but  the  road  is  barred 
to  him.  This  is  one  of  the  problems  of  the  great  city,  the  overflow  of 
people  from  the  country,  the  overstocked  labor  market,  hungry  men 
praying  for  work,  and  yet,  thank  Heaven,  keeping  their  desperate  hands 
off  their  neighbors'  goods." 

Launcelot  revolved  these  questions  wearily  in  his  mind,  until  the  man 
jogged  his  elbow  in  a  shamefaced  way. 

"  You  were  speaking  of  breakfast,  sir;  old  Betty  will  be  ready  by 
now." 

"  Then  we  will  go  at  once,"  returned  Launcelot,  with  his  old  brisk- 
ness, for  be  was  never  slow  to  feed  hungry  men;  but  after  all  Betty 
kept  them  waiting  a  little  longer,  for  they  were  her  earliest  customers. 

Launcelot  provided  himself  with  a  cup  of  the  "  prime  coffee;"  it  was 
hot  and  sweet,  and  of  no  particular  flavor,  but  he  managed  a  sip  or  two, 
which  did  him  good. 

But  the  real  benefit  lay  in  watching  Martin — he  had  given  his  name, 
Joseph  Martin;  to  him  the  coffee  was  nectar  and  the  huge  slabs  of  bread 
and  butter  food  of  the  choicest  quality;  and  as  he  eat  and  drank,  a  little 
life  and  color  seemed  to  come  into  his  white  face,  and  his  eyes  lost  their 
wild,  hungry  look. 

By  and  by  the  coffee-stall  became  surrounded  by  men  who  were  wait- 
ing'for  a  day's  job,  and  a  tribe  of  miserable,  ragged  boys.     Launcelot 
ly  invited  them  all  to  breakfast,  and  old  Betty's  stall  was  soon 
red. 

"  I  think  we  may  as  well  be  going,  Martin,  before  a  crowd  collects," 
lie  whispered  at  length,  when  he  saw  the  last  slieo  of  bread  and  butter 
in  tlirj  dirty  hand  of  a  street  Arab;  "  let,  us  slip  away."  But  they  were 
not  qirlck  enough  to  avoid  the  ringing  cheer  from  the,  satislied  guests, 
and  in  spite  of  his  despondency  a  faint  smile  rose  to  Launcelot 's  lips. 

i'or  busiiif  .id.  as  they  entered  a  quiet  street;  and  tak- 

iiook  he  wrote  a  few  lines  to  Miss  Thorp^  and 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  155 

charged  the  man  to  deliver  them  without  fail  at  her  office,  by  eleven 
o'clock. 

"  The  lady  to  whom  this  is  addressed  will  inquire  into  your  case,  and 
do  her  best  for  you;  if  your  wife  is  well  enough  to  go  with  you,  it  would 
be  better  to  let  Miss  Thorpe  see  her  and  the  children,  as  she  will  pro- 
vide them  with  clothing,  if  necessary,  and  tell  you  where  to  find  a 
decent  lodging.  There  is  a  shilling  for  you,  and  now  you  must  pluck 
up  heart  and  hope  for  better  days.  Tell  Miss  Thorpe  about  your  girl — • 
she  is  in  connection  with  a  society  for  rescue  work,  and  she  must  be 
found;  good-bye,  Martin." 

And  Launcelot  turned  away  quickly,  for  he  saw  the  man's  emotion 
was  getting  the  better  of  him,  and  he  wanted  to  avoid  well-merited 
thanks. 

But  the  words  he  had  written  to  Miss  Thorpe  were  these : 

"  My  dear  friend, — Will  you  do  your  best  for  this  poor  fellow?  he 
wants  a  helping  hand  sadly.  He  can  not  find  work  here;  would  it  not 
be  well  to  give  him  a  decent  suit  of  clothes  and  send  him  back  to  his 
own  village?  Let  it  be  at  my  expense  if  you  will,  only  let  it  be  done 
thoroughly — it  is  a  sad  story." 

,  It  was  still  so  early  that  he  had  to  walk  a  long  way  before  he  could 
find  a  cab  that  would  take  him  to  Brentwood  Common :  indeed,  it  was 
n^t  seven  when  he  let  himself  in  at  the  green  door  in  the  wall,  and  went 
by  the  garden  way  to  the  side  entrance,  where  the  cook  was  holding  a 
colloquy  with  the  milkman. 

He  wished  her  good-morning  and  gave  her  a  message  for  Fenwick, 
that  he  was  not  to  be  disturbed  until  he  rang  his  bell,  and  then  break- 
fast was  to  be  served  for  him  in  the  studio. 

"  I  will  have  a  glass  of  that  fresh  milk  now,  and  a  crust  of  bread,  if 
you  will  be  good  enough  to  give  it  me,  Mrs.  Plumber,"  he  added. 

"  Betler  let  me  give  you  a  cup  of  tea,  sir — the  kettle  is  boiling,  and 
you  look  sadly  jaded."  And  Launcelot  did  not  refuse  so  tempting  an 
offer. 

Then  he  went  up  to  his  own  room,  took  a  bath,  and  lay  down  on  his 
bed  for  an  hour's  sleep;  his  rest  was  brief,  however.  By  ten  he  had 
ended  his  solitary  meal  and  opened  his  letters,  and  then  he  went  in 
search  of  his  step-mother. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

A    MODERN    BAYARD. 

The  man  whom  I  call  deserving  the  name  is  one  whose  thoughts  and  exertions  are 
for  others  rather  than  for  himself. — Peveril  of  the  Peak. 

"  BUT,  Madella-" 

"  Not  another  word,  Launcelot.  I  have  made  up  my  mind;  that  girl 
shall  not  remain  under  my  roof.  Now,  it  is  no  use  your  trying  to  in- 
fluence me;  this  is  not  a  matter  that  a  young  man  can  decide.  If  only 
your  poor  father  were  alive — but  of  course  he  would  say  a  woman  of 
my  age  would  know  best.  Think  of  the  bad  example  for  our  girls;  and 
then  there  are  Geoffrey  and  Bernard  to  consider.  A  mother  must  think 
first  of  her  own  children." 

"  Granted,  but  a  mother's  duty  need  not  stop  there.  That  is  the 
worst  of  you  good  women — you  will  mothe*  your  own  girls,  but  you 


156  ONLY    THE    <;<>vi:r;N 

will  not  extend  your  guardianship  and  charity  to  a  poor,  misguided 
young  woman." 

"  Let  her  go  home  to  her  husband  if  he  will  have  her!"  returned  Mrs. 
Chudleigh,  with  decided  temper,  for  there  could  be  no  doubt  that  she 
•was  more  seriously  milled  than  even  Launcelot  had  feared  she  would 
be.  The  fair,  placid  faee  was  Hushed  with  the  heat  of  righteous  ' 
nation;  the  mild  eyes  sparkled  with  angry  excitement.  She  loo! 
fierce  as  a  swan  when  a  strange  footstep  invades  the  seduy  bank  where 
her  cygnets'  nest  is  hidden.  For  the  first  time,  Launcelot's  intlucnce 
seemed"  to  fail.  For  more  than  an  hour  he  had  been  quietly  reasoning 
with  her,  but  as  yet  he  had  made  no  impression;  but  all  the  same,  he 
did  not  appear  cast  down  by  his  want  of  success.  He  had  expected 
difficulty  and  opposition;  he  knew  human  nature  too  well  to  anticipate 
an  easy' victory.  There  is  no  severer  censor  of  her  own  sex  than  a 
thorougldy  good,  pure-minded  woman:  such  a  one  will  refuse  to  allow 
the  force  of  a  temptation  that  would  have  had  no  power  over  herself. 
Invincible  in  her  own  innocence  and  integrity,  she  is  ready  and  willing 
the  first  stone. 

It  requires  Infinite  Love  to  raise  the  sinner.  It  was  only  Omnipotent 
Mercy  that  could  endure  the  caressing  touch  of  penitence  and  not  be  de- 
filed by  it.  But  Christian  women  close  their  eyes  and  draw  the  hem  of 
their  garment  aside  for  fear  of  contamination.  "  You  have  fallen,  but 
we  will  not  help  you  to  rise,  though  we  have  daughters  of  our  own  fpr 
whom  we  pray  every  night:"  that  is  what  they  say;  and  the  "  Neither 
do  I  condemn  thee  ' '  is  only  spoken  b}'  the  Master  they  profess  to  serve. 

Launcelot  knew  all  this,  and  he  knew,  too,  that  in  the  eyes  of  that 
loyal  wife  and  mother  Joan's  sin  was  very  black  indeed— she  had  not 
only  left  her  husband,  but  she  had  cast  oil  her  marriage  vows.  "  It  is 
her  deception  and  ingratitude  that  sicken  me,  and  the  thought  of  the 
mischief  she  has  done,"  Mrs.  Chudleigh  had  observed  in  an  earlier  part 
of  their  conversation,  but  Launcelot  had  asked  for  no  explanation  of 
this  vague  speech. 

Tie  had  sat  silent  for  a  little  while  after  she  had  delivered  her  last 
fling.  He  would  give  her  time  to  cool  and  to  repent  of  some  of  her  hard 
speeches;  but  by  and  by  he  said,  very  quietly — 

"  How  easy  it  is  to  misunderstand  even  those  who  are  dear* 
closest  to  us.     Now  a  little  while  ago  if  any  one  had  told  me  that  you 
would  have  refused  me  anything  I  asked  as  a  favor,  I  would  not  have 
believed  them;  but  it  seems  that  there  are  limits  even  to  Madella's 
generosity. ' ' 

This  reproach  brought  the  tears  to  her  eyes,  and  her  bosom  heaved  a 
little. 

' '  Launce  —oh,  my  dear  boy — how  can  you  have  the  heart  to  say  such 
a  thing,  when  you  know  it  is  of  you  I  am  thinking,  that  it  is  for  your 
sake  I  want  her  to  go?  Oh,  you  have  not  said  a  word,  but  I  know  for 
all  that — "  but  then  she  stopped,  a  little  frightened  by  his  peremptory 
gesture  and  the  sternness  of  his  set  white  face. 

"Mother" — and  she   absolutely  started;    lie  had  never  called  her 
mother  but  once  in  his  life;  when  he  was  dangerously  ill  as  a  lad,  and 
the  doctors  had  given  her  little  hope,  then  he  had  called  her  to  him  and 
•  1  her  not.  to  leave  him  again.     "  .Mother,"  he  said,  and  thei- 

In   his  tone,  "if  you   love   me  never  allude  to  this  again.     I 
..re  me  of  your  sympathy.     Let  the  silence  between 
us  be  unbi  • 

"  Very  well,  Launcelot/'  she  answered,  meekly,  and  as  she  stooped 


OKLY    THE    OOYKRXESS.  15^ 

«ed  kissed  his  forehead  he  put  back  his  head,  and  it  seemed  to  rest  in- 
voluntarily  against  her  shoulder. 

"  My  dear  boy,  my  poor  boy!"  she  ventured  to  whisper,  as  though 
she  felt  this  mute  appeal  to  her  heart's  core. 

"  I  think  I  am  tired,"  observed  Launcelot,  presently,  as  though  his 
manhood  wished  to  apologize  for  this  momentary  weakness. 

Tired — ay,  almost  broken-hearted — she  knew  that  well.  The  laryes&e 
and  riches  of  his  love  were  all  wasted;  that  great,  kingly  heart  had  been 
laid  in  the  dust.  "  My  poor  boy,  my  darling  boy!"  she  sighed,  still 
bemoaning  him,  and  not  knowing  the  advantage  he  would  take  of  her 
tenderness. 

"  Madella,"  he  said,  rousing  himself,  "  if  there  be  one  thing  that 
could  make  me  happier  than  I  am  at  present,  it  would  be  to  see  Mrs. 
Thorpe  under  her  husband's  roof  again,  to  know  they  were  united." 

"Yes;  but,  Lauuce,  do  you  think  such  a  thing  is  possible?  Mr. 
Thorpe  seems  a  stern  man;  he  would  hardly  condone  such  an  offense." 

"  It  is  his  duty  to  condone  it;  he  is  her  husband,  remember  that;  he 
is  responsible  for  that  poor  girl.  What  right  had  he  to  yield  to  her  un- 
disciplined wishes?  He  should  have  kept  her  at  all  costs.  If  harm  had 
come  to  her  it  would  be  on  his  head.  He  dare  not  leave  her  exposed  to 
tbe  world's  tender  mercies,  he  dare  not,"  and  Launcelot's  hand  clinched 
itself  involuntarily.  "  When  I  speak  to  him  I  shall  tell  him  that  he 
has  failed  in  his  duty." 

"  You  had  better  keep  out  of  it,  Launcelot."  Then  he  looked  at  her 
with  extreme  surprise. 

"  There  I  differ  from  you.  I  consider  Miss  Rossiter — I  mean  Mrs. 
Thorpe — under  our  joint  guardianship  until  she  is  restored  to  her  hus- 
band's care.  Sit  down  and  let  us  talk  about  it  a  little,"  for  she  was 
still  standing  beside  him  with  her  hand  on  his  shoulder;  she  had  risen 
to  comfort  him  and  had  not  cared  to  reseat  herself,  but  now  Launcelot 
put  her  with  gentle  force  into  the  chair  beside  him. 

"  That  is  more  comfortable.  You  must  not  get  pale  and  tired  over 
it,  Madella,  for  you  are  my  one  comfort,  and  I  am  depending  on  your 
help;"  then  metaphorically  she  was  at  his  feet  in  a  moment,  she  was 
ready  to  do  his  bidding  slavishly,  if  only  she  could  be  a  comfort  to  her 
boy. 

"  Oh,  Launce,  if  I  only  could  comfort  you!" 

"  You  shall,  you  always  do.  Now  you  are  your  own  sweet  self 
again,  and  I  can  speak  to  you  openly,  but  first  you  must  promise  to  for- 
give that  poor  girl." 

' '  I  will  try,  but  you  must  give  me  time,  and  not  ask  me  to  do  impos- 
sible things;  and,  Launcelot,  if  she  is  not  to  leave  the  house  directly,  I 
must  make  one  condition,  that  she  puts  on  her  wedding-ring  and  calls 
herself  by  her  right  name." 

"  You  must  tell  her  so;  she  will  not  refuse  to  be  guided.  She  is  very 
miserable;  I  don't  think  I  ever  saw  any  one  so  unhappy;  it  is  quite  piti- 
ful to  see  her.  She  has  got  herself  into  trouble,  and  she  has  no  more 
idea  than  a  child  what  to  do  next.  Indeed,  you  need  not  fear  her  con- 
taminating Bee  or  Pauline;  she  is  really  good  and  innocent.  Though 
her  impulsive  nature  has  led  her  wrong,  she  will  be  the  first  to  accuse 
herself  and  implore  your  forgiveness." 

"Yes;  but,  Launcelot,  slie  has  done  exceedingly  wrong.  Suppose 
one  of  my  daughters,  Bee  for  example,  had  acted  as  Miss  Rossiter  has 
— oh,  there  is  the  old  name." 

"  Bee  had  a  good  mother  to  teach  her;  she  has  not  grown  up  exposed 


15$  ONLY    THE    C.OYEKXESS. 

to  every  sort  of  bful  influence;  but  if  she  foukl  have  been  guilty  of  snob 
•ion,  you  would  still  have  taken  her  to  your  heart,  and  remembered 
that  she  was  your  daughter.     Oh.  Madella,  "it  is  all  very  well  to  h 
your  heart  now,  but  you  will  not  find  it  so  dillicult  to  forgive  her  after 
all."     IJut  .Mrs.  C'hudlei^h  would  not  allow  this;  she  had  main1 
her  firmness  for  a  whole  hour,  and  she  was  unwilling  to  resume  her  old 
limpness  of  purpose. 

"  I  think  it  is  for  her  to  come  to  me."  she  said,  with  a  touch  of 
rity. 

.  but  1  know  you  well  enough  to  be  sure  you  will  not  wait  for 
that.  You  must  send  the  children  out,  and  get  her  to  talk  to  you  about 
her  husband;  a  woman  has  more  Jinexsc  than  a  man.  You  will  be  able 
to  judge  of  her  feelings,  and  know  how  to  give  her  a  word  in  season." 

"  She  may  refuse  to  listen  to  me." 

"  Oh,  no,  she  will  not  refuse;  she  loves  you  dearly.  Make  an  oppor- 
tunity to  speak  to  her  this  afternoon  while  the  girls  are  absent— they 
will  be  back  before  evening.  Now  I  am  going  to  write  a  line  to  Thorpe. 
I  shall  ask  him  to  come  up  to-morrow  evening  and  speak  to  me  on  press- 
ing business,  and  then  I  shall  put  the  whole  thing  in  his  hands.  Per- 
haps you  had  better  tell  the  girls  and  Geoffrey;  it  is  no  use  making  a 
mystery  of  it.  I  am  giving  you  a  great  deal  of  unpleasant  work.  Ma 
della,  but  I  did  not  sleep  last  night,  and  my  head  is  inclined  to  ache.  I 
shall  keep  quiet,  and  this  feeling  will  pass  off." 

' '  Indeed,  you  do  look  wretchedly  ill ;  why,  there  are  black  lines  un- 
der your  eyes.  Oh,  dear,"  interrupting  herself,  "  I  quite  forgot  to  give 
you  this,"  and  she  handed  him  a  note,  "a  messenger  brought  it  this 
morning." 

"  It  is  from  Miss  Thorpe,"  returned  Launcelot,  after  he  had  mastered 
the  contents;  "  she  wants  me  to  call  on  her  about  five.  One  of  my 
numerous  proteges  has  got  into  a  bit  of  trouble.  It  is  that  Job  AVilkiu- 
son;  I  always  said  he  had  a  bee  in  his  bonnet.  I  must  confess  1  wish 
Job  were  at* Hanover  at  the  present  moment." 

"  Yes.  but  it  would  never  do  to  forsake  the  poor  fellow,"  replied  Mrs. 
Chudlcigh,  with  diplomatic  and  well-feigned  interest.  Job  Wilkinson 
was  a  bore  certainly  and  most  likely  a  rogue  in  the  bargain,  but 
thing  was  better  for  Launcelot  than  brooding  in  his  studio.  If  she 
could  only  get  him  out  of  the  house  as  much  as  possible  while  that  un- 
fortunate young  woman  was  in  it! 

Launcelot  had  been  too  generous  to  imply  that  his  step-mother  had 
boon  to  blame  in  bringing  a  stranger  under  their  roof  without  satis- 
factory references,  but  all  the  same  her  conscience  pricked  her  most 
sadly,  and  her  self- accusation  made  her  uneasy  and  irritable;  her  own 
in  judiciousness  had  brought  this  trouble  on  him,  and  she  felt  all  at  once 
as  though  ten  years  were  added  to  her  age. 

"Of  course  I  must  go,"  he  answered,  with  some  annoyance,  "  but  I 
think  a  nap  would  have  done  my  head  more  good,1'  and  then  he  rose 
slowly  from  his  chair,  and  walked  out  of  the  room;  but  she  followed 
him  into  the  studio  a  few  minutes  later,  to  tell  him  that  Mi- 

still  called  her,  was  not  coming  down  to  luncheon,  but  had  sent 
y  Sybil  to  excuse  herself. 

.did  carve  for  the  children  as  usual,  Launce,  will  you 
not?"  she  asked,  with  a  sort  of  yearning  to  keep  him  in  her  sight. 

"There  is  no  reason  why  1  should  not  come  to  any  meals,"  he  an- 
d,  quietly;  "  perhaps  it  is  as  well  that  Mrs.  Thorpe  should 

/day,  but  she  must  not  absent  herself  to-morrow.     We  may 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  159 

have  to  go  on  \ike  this  for  a  long  time,  for  I  can  not  cheat  myself  into 
tho  belief  that  Thorpe  will  open  his  door  to  her  at  once.  Let  everything, 
therefore,  be  as  usual;  if  there  be  anyone  I  wish  to  avoid,  I  can  dine  at 
my  club,"  and  this  time  she  did  not  venture  to  contradict  him. 

Launcelot  came  in  to  luncheon,  and  talked  to  the  two  little  girls,  and 
never  even  changed  countenance  when  Sybil  told  him  how  bad  poor 
Miss  Rossiter's  headache  had  been  all  the  morning.  "  She  makes  it 
worse  with  crying;  I  tell  her  so  over  and  over  again,"  finished  Sybil, 
who  was  much  dissatisfied  with  the  change  in  her  lively  governess,  and 
who  had  never  found  the  school-room  so  dull  before.  Dossie  was 
rather  quieter  than  usual,  and  did  not  join  much  in  Sybil's  chatter,  but 
Launcelot  noticed  once  or  twice  the  blue  eyes  were  fixed  rather  anxious- 
ly on  his  face.  When  luncheon  was  over  and  he  pushed  back  his  chair, 
he  felt  a  little  hand  slip  into  his. 

"  Have  you  a  headache,  too,  Mr.  Lance?" 

"  Well,  yes,  it  is  rather  bad,  Dossie." 

"  Father  had  it  once,"  she  said,  wistfully,  "  and  he  let  me  bathe  his 
head  with  eau-de-Cologne.  Aunt  Delia  has  some  lovely  eau-de-Cologne; 
do  let  me  put  some  on  your  forehead,  it  will  do  you  ever  so  much 
good." 

"  I  am  quite  sure  of  that,  dear,"  and  for  a  moment  Launcelot  thought 
how  comforting  it  would  be  to  lie  down  in  a  cool,  shaded  room  and 
submit  to  these  childish  manipulations;  but  there  could  be  no  rest  for 
him  yet — "  but  I  have  some  letters  to  write,  and  then  I  must  go  out," 
and  as  her  face  fell  at  his  words  he  kissed  her  forehead. 

"  I  know  what  a  dear  little  nurse  you  can  be,  Dossie,  but  I  am  too 
busy  to  think  of  my  headache;"  but  the  kind  words  did  not  seem  to 
console  Dossie,  for  she  sighed  heavily  and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"  I  do  not  like  Mr.  Lance  to  look  like  that,  Aunt  Delia,"  she  said, 
when  he  had  left  the  room;  "  it  makes  me  ache  somehow.  I  do  wish 
I  could  do  something  for  him,"  and  all  that  afternoon  Sybil  found  her 
a  very  unsatisfactory  playfellow.  Dossie  moped,  and  even  Beppo's 
playful  tricks  failed  to  win  a  smile  from  his  little  mistress;  the  child's 
sensitive  and  precocious  nature  felt  the  disturbing  influences  of  the 
moral  atmosphere  round  her.  If  Mr.  Lance  were  ill  or  unhappy,  it 
was  plainly  impossible  for  Dossie  to  be  comfortable  or  at  her  ease. 

Lauucelot  had  no  thoughts  for  his  little  favorite;  he  wrote  his  busi- 
letters,  and  then  ordered  his  phaeton  to  be  brought  round,  and 
drove  himself  to  Priory  Road.  As  he  stood  in  the  hall  drawing  on  his 
driving- gloves,  his  step-mother  came  to  him. 

"  I  have  just  received  a  note  from  Bee,"  she  said;  "  it  was  brought 
by  hand,  and  the  messenger  is  waiting  for  an  answer.  Lady  Hamblyn 
wants  both  the  girls  to  stay  over  to-morrow.  There  is  to  be  a  grand 
concert  at  the  Crystal  Palace,  to  which  she  wants  to  take  them.  I  sup- 
pose there  can  be  no  objection  to  their  remaining?" 

"  None  whatever.  I  shall  be  glad  for  them  to  stay,"  he  returned, 
hastily,  forgetting  for  the  moment  his  fear  of  the  Hamblyn  connection. 
He  was  only  too  thankful  that  the  girls  should  be  away;  he  knew  the 
interview  with  Joan  would  try  his  step-mother  exceedingly,  and  she 
must  have  time  to  recover  from  her  agitation. 

"  Tell  Bee  that  they  may  remain  as  long  as  they  wish,"  he  said,  in 
quite  a  tone  of  relief,  ns  he  stepped  into  the  phaeton,  and  then  drove 
quickly  across  the  common  and  down  the  hill  toward  Overtoil. 

He  found  Miss  Thorpe  alone,  with  her  little  tea-table  beside  her;  as 


160  ONL'N     TI1K    coVERNESS. 

she  took  his  hand  her  keen  gray  eyes  instantly  detected  the  alteration  in 
his  looks. 

"  You  are  tired  or  worried,  perhaps  both.  I  ought  not  to  have  sent 
for  you,"  she  suid.  regretfully. 

"'I  have  ovenvalked  myself,"  was  the  evasive  answer,  "  and  this  dry 

heat  tries  oue.     I  expect  a  cup  of  your  excellent  tea  will  do  me  good;" 

and  Miss  Thorpe,  who  was  never  slow  to  take  a  hint,  poured  out  the 

ud,  ignoring  her  favorite's  care-worn  looks,  treated  him  to  a  brief, 

luiM'iie-s-liki-  summary  of  Job  Wilkinson's  misdemeanors. 

"  V\V  must  just  wash  our  hands  of  him;  he  is  worthless,  quite  worth- 
-he  concluded. 

"  I  dare  say  you  are  right:  anyhow,  I  am  too  lazy  to  contradict  you; 
worthless,  no  doubt,  but  I  think  we  will  give  the  poor  fellow  another 
chance." 

"  But,  Mr.  Chudleigh,  I  tell  you  Job  is  incorrigible." 

"  True.  But  Job  has  a  wife  and  children,  and  he  must  have  bread 
to  put  in  their  mouths.  He  has  a  very  small  allowance  of  brains,  and 
I  think  his  moral  sense  is  not  quite  developed;  but  even  incorrigible 
people  must  be  fed. ' ' 

"  But  not  at  the  expense  of  our  society!"  she  rejoined,  waxing  a 
little  warm  at  this  opposition.  "  We  only  undertake  to  relieve  women 
and  children;  besides,  I  have  proved  to  you  already  that  the  Wilkinsons 
are  not  reliable.  You,  must  excuse  me  if  I  say  that  I  think  you  are 
wrong  in  advocating  their  cause." 

"  Oh,  but  I  am  doing  nothing  of  the  kind.  I  am  simply  pleading  for 
mercy.  Come,  Miss  Thorpe,  I  will  not  tax  either  your  conscience  or 
the  society,  but  I  know  you  will  not  refuse  to  act  as  my  private  almoner. 
Let  Job  have  another  chance;  his  wife  is  a  decent  body,  whose  only 
fault  is  that  she  has  married  a  fool." 

"Very  well,"  shrugging  her  shoulders,  "I  have  given  you  my 
opinion,  and  if  you  choose  to  saddle  yourself  with  a  set  of  shiftless 
creatures  who  only  know  how  to  put  their  hand  to  the  mouth,  that  is 
your  affair,  not  mine.  Now  I  have  another  scolding  in  store  for  you. 
O  ur  society  is  not  elastic,  and  we  have  too  many  claimants  for  aid  already, 
and  yet  you  have  sent  us  Joseph  Martin!" 

"  Oh,  yes  " — waking  up  to  interest  now.  "  I  am  most  anxious  to 
know  the  result  of  your  interview  with  him;  you  remember  what  I  said 
in  my  note,  that  all  expenses  might  be  put  to  my  account." 

"  1  think,"  she  returned,  slowly,  but  her  fine  face  softened  as  she 
!  at  him,  "  that  you  are  the  most  impulsive  and  injudicious  person 
t  hat  I  ever  met,  and  that  unless  you  keep  your  generosity  in  due  bounds 
will  soon  ruin  yourself. >: 

"  Still,  it  is  a  deserving  case,"  he  replied,  perfectly  ignoring  this 
e.  "Poor  Martin!  My  heart  bled  for  him  last  night.  Did  he 
bring  his  wife  and  children?  I  hope  you  considered  his  account  satis- 
factory." 

"  I  think  he  spoke  the  truth.     It  is  certainly  a  sad  case;  the  children 

look  half  starved,  and  the  baby  is  dying.     I  have  done  my  best  for 

thorn.     Betty  has  taken  them  home,  and  we  have  fitted  them  out  with 

i  clothes;  they  want  to  go  back  to  their  old  village.     Martin  thinks 

liis  old  ni!t-icr  will  give  them  a  job.     Shall  we  keep  .Mrs.  Martin  and 

Mldren  for  a  week  or  so  while  he  looks  out  for  work?    The  poor 

baby  can  not  last  much  longer,  and  oue  of  the  other  children  looks  ill. 

If  you  will  agree  to  this  Betty  will  house  them,  and  I  will  give  Martin 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  161 

his  fare  and  a  small  sum  for  a  week's  food  and  lodging— that  is  if  you 
•till  persist  in  your  generous  intentions. ' ' 

"  I  think  that  will  be  the  best  plan.  Don't  stint  the  poor  fellow;  he 
has  been  half  starved  too,  and  hungry  men  can  not  work  well.  Send 
him  back  to  his  old  place  to-morrow  morning,  and  feed  up  the  wife  and 
children.  Now  I  am  your  debtor,  Miss  Thorpe.  Shall  I  write  you  a 
check  now,  or  will  you  give  me  in  the  account  afterward." 

"  I  should  prefer  the  latter,  and  I  have  a  little  in  hand  still.  Very 
well,  I  will  settle  the  Martins  to-morrow,  and  Mrs.  Wilkinson  will  be 
here  to-night.  Now  let  me  give  you  another  cup  of  tea,  as  we  quarreled 
over  the  last." 

Launcelot  took  the  cup  from  her  hand  a  little  absently.  A  thought 
had  just  occurred  to  him — Should  he  make  a  confidante  of  Miss 
Thorpe,  without  waiting  to  speak  to  her  brother?  The  opportunity  had 
come  unsought;  he  might  try  to  soften  her  animosity  against  her  sister- 
in-law,  to  appeal  to  her  justice  and  common  sense.  True,  it  was  ;i 
hazardous  experiment,  and  Miss  Thorpe  was  a  difficult  person  to  influ- 
ence, but,  as  he  hesitated,  by  a  strange  coincidence  Miss  Thorpe  led  to 
the  subject. 

"  Mr.  Chudleigh,"  she  began  rather  abruptly,  "  do  you  believe  that  I 
am  a  person  likely  to  be  subjected  to  any  hallucination?" 

"  That  depends  on  what  you  mean  to  express  by  the  term.  In  one's 
dictionary  the  word  means  '  an  error  or  illusion  of  sensible  perception, 
occasioned  by  some  bodily  or  organic  disorder  or  affection,  as  distin- 
guished from  a  phantasm,  which  is  owing  to  disorder  of  the  mind  or 
imagination,'  but  in  either  case  I  should  think  you  the  very  last  person 
to  be  duped  by  your  imagination  or  senses." 

"  Well,  I  should  have  said  just  the  same  thing  myself;  it  must  have 
been  transmission  of  thought,  but  it  certainly  had  the  very  strongest 
appearance  of  reality,  and  made  me  uneasy  for  a  long  time  afterward. 
I  did  not  tell  Ivan,  of  course,  but  there  can  be  no  harm  in  mentioning  it 
to  you.  The  other  day  I  was  paying  a  bill  at  Sparke's — you  know  that 
low  shop  by  the  bridge,  I  have  dealt  there  for  some  time.  Well,  I  was 
just  putting  the  change  in  my  purse,  counting  it  to  make  sure  it  was 
correct,  when  all  at  once  the  thought  of  Joan  flashed  through  my  mind; 
I  looked  up,  and  through  the  open  door  I  could  see  her  face  as  plainly 
as  I  see  you,  and  then  it  disappeared." 

"  Was  she  alone?" 

"  What  a  question!  You  speak  as  though  it  were  really  she,  and  not 
a  trick  of  my  imagination.  I  tell  you  I  only  saw  her  face." 

"  You  have  not  even  an  impression  about  her  dress?" 

"  Yes,  she  wore  a  hat  trimmed  with  dark-green  velvet.  I  assure  you 
I  saw  it  quite  plainly;  she  was  looking  pale  too,  I  noticed  that.  I 
thought  for  a  moment  it  was  really  Joan,  and  I  rushed  to  the  shop  door 
and  looked  up  the  street,  but  there  was  no  one  there — only  two  little 
girls  looking  in  at  the  chemist's  window." 

"  Was  one  of  those  little  girls  Dossie?" 

"  Dossie?  I  never  thought  about  the  child.  How  should  I  know? 
They  were  in  white  frocks  and  wore  broad-brimmed  straw  hats,  but  I 
did  not  see  their  faces.  What  made  you  mention  Dossie?" 

"  I  thought  perhaps  you  had  seen  their  governess,  Miss  Rossi ter;" 
but  Miss  Thorpe  was  too  much  engrossed  by  her  own  thoughts  to  notice 
Launcelot's  peculiar  manner. 

' '  It  must  have  been  transmission  of  thought.  I  have  often  read  of 
people  experiencing  this  sort  of  momentary  illusion,  only  it  made  me 


162  ONLY    Tin- 

feel  very  uncomfortable.     1  sometimes  \vish— "  and  tlien  she  stopped, 
and  au  uneasy  expression  crossed  her  !':;< 

"Miss  Thorpe,  how  long  is  it  since  you  heard  from  your  sister-in- 

"  Oh,  a  very  long  time,"  but  Launcelot  could  see  that  she  made  the 
admission  somewhat  reluctantly.     "  Ivan  wished  to  keep  up  a-, 
spomlence,  as  I  told  you,  but  it  was  terribly  unsatisfactory  ;uul  did  no 
good.     My  last  letter,  with  money  inclosed,  was  returned  to  me. 
had  left  her  situation." 

"  That  was  after  Mrs.  Wcston's  death.'1 

"  I  suppose  so,  but,"  glancing  at  him  still  more  uneasily,  "  how  did 
you  know  Mrs.  Western  was  dead?" 

"  I  will  tell  you  presently;  I  have  had  news  of  your  sister-in-law. 
Her  aunt  Mrs.  Templeton  is  dead  too." 

A  dark  flush  crossed  Miss  Thorpe's  face. 

"  She  did  not  tell  us  so;  she  left  me  to  find  out  for  myself,  when  my 
letter  was  returned.  I  made  inquiries,  and  found  that  they  were  both 
dead  and  that  Joan  had  left  the  neighborhood.  Of  course  .she  had  taken 
another  situation,  and  she  did  not  wish  me  to  know  her  address." 

"  Miss  Thorpe,"  returned  Launcelot,  very  quietly,  "  I  have  a  great 
deal  to  tell  you,  but  there  is  one  question  that  I  must  have  answered 
first;  does  your  brother  know  that  Mrs.  "Weston  is  dead?  has  he  any 
idea  that  Mrs.  Thorpe  is  not  still  at  Malvern?"  but  as  he  asked  this  a 
hard  look  came  into  Miss  Thorpe's  eyes,  and  her  thin  lips  twitched 
nervously. 

"  No,"  she  returned,  steadily.  "  You  have  no  right  to  put  such  a 
question  to  me,  but  I  will  not  tell  you  a  lie.  Ivan  does  not  know;  I 
never  told  him. ' ' 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

RACHEL'S  SILENCE. 

The  fall  thou  darest  to  despise 
May  be  the  slacken'd  angers  hand 
Has  suffered  it,  that  lie  may  rise 
And  take  a  firmer,  surer  stand; 
Or,  trusting  less  to  earthly  things, 
May  henceforth  learn  to  use  his  wings. 

ADELAIDE  ANNE  PROCTER. 

Miss  THORPE'S  singular  avowal  did  not  in  the  least  surprise  1/nmce- 
lot.     All  along  there  had  been  a  latent  suspicion  in  his  mind  th 
friend  had  acted  most  unwisely  in  making  his  sister  the  medium  of 
communication  with  his  wife.     She  had  most  undoubtedly  st  n 
his  prejudices,  and  fanned  his  anger  when  it  was  in  danger  o 
ing:    and  more  than  once   he   had    reason   to   fear   that    Mr.   'I 
not  completely  acquainted  with  his  wife's  movenu  i 

lie  remained  so  long  silent,  revolving  probable-  eon  in  his 

mind,  that  Miss  Thorpe  naturally  misunderstood  him.  She  thought  he 
was  too  much  shocked  to  speak,  and  placed  herself  at  once  on  the  de- 
fensive. 

1   you  had  no  right  to  put  such  a  question  to  me,  and  now 
you    I  right  to  judge  me.      I   ;mi  not  ashamed  of  what  ! 

done.     JIow  can  you,  or  any  one,  understand  what  1  ha\e  been  tin 

.nV.'     My  inotivi  ^tilled  my  actions.     If  1  held 


on  Iv 

my  tongue  about  Joan,"  if  I  did  not  stiare  my  anxieties  with  Ivan,  it 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  163 

was  because  I  would  not  add  to  his  heavy  trouble.  He  had  suffered  so 
much,  I  wanted,  I  longed  for  him  to  forget." 

"  Do  you  think  a  man  is  ever  likely  to  forget  such  things?" 

"  I  am  not  speaking  literally.  Of  course  he  remembers  and  is  sorry, 
but  his  suffering  is  blunted;  time  is  a  merciful  healer,  and  it  is  easier  to 
forget  when  there  is  nothing  to  recall  things  too  vividly  to  one's  mind. 
It  is.  long  since  we  have  even  mentioned  her  name;  it  is  far  better  not 
to  speak  of  her.  I  think  he  is  beginning  to  feel  less  sensitive  about  his 
position." 

"  There  I  differ  from  you.  I  fear  you  are  making  a  very  grave  mis- 
take, and,  at  the  risk  of  offending  you,  I  must  add  that  you  are  not  act- 
ing with  your  usual  rectitude  and  high  principle." 

It  was  evident  to  Launcelot  that  this  plain  speaking  gave  Miss 
Thorpe  acute  pain.  The  tears  came  into  her  eyes  for  a  moment,  but 
she  recovered  herself  at  once. 

"It  is  rather  hard  to  be  misjudged  by  a  friend,  but  we  have  always 
spoken  the  truth  to  each  other,  and  I  suppose  I  must  bear  it  as  patient- 
ly as  I  can.  Even  Ivan  will  tell  me  I  am  wrong,  and  yet  I  can  not  re- 
gret what  I  have  done,  when  I  think  of  the  months  of  suspense  I  have 
spared  him.  He  would  have  made  himself  miserable  on  Joan's  ac- 
count; he  would  not  have  known  a  moment's  peace." 

"  And  you  kept  your  anxieties  to  yourself?" 

"  I  thought  it  kinder  to  Ivan  to  do  so.  I  will  not  deny  that  I  was 
terribly  uneasy  when  my  letter  was  returned.  I  made  all  possible  in- 
quiries, but  could  only  glean  a  few  scanty  facts— that  both  Mrs.  Tem- 
pleton  and  Mrs.  Selby  were  dead,  and  that  Joan  had  received  a  small 
legacy,  and  had  left  the  neighborhood  without  stating  her  plans  for  the 
future  and  without  mentioning  our  name." 

"  And  you  kept  your  brother  in  ignorance  of  all  this?" 

"  Not  entirely.  I  told  him  of  Mrs.  Templeton's  death — indeed  it  was 
in  the  paper — and  I  also  mentioned  to  him  that  Joan  invariably  returned 
the  money  sent  for  her  use;  and  he  told  me  to  lock  it  up,  and  keep  it 
for  her,  as  she  would  probably  change  her  mind  some  day.  Her  last 
letter  had  provoked  me  excessively,  and  I  had  sent  back  an  angry  reply. 
I  wish  now  I  had  used  a  milder  tone.  I  thought  the  long  silence  was 
intended  to  punish  me  for  telling  her  sundry  unpalatable  truths,  and 
that  when  she  hud  sulked  long  enough  she  would  write  as  usual,  and 
tell  me  she  had  found  another  situation.  I  did  not  begin  to  feel  seri- 
ously uneasy  for  some  time." 

"  And  you  could  take  such  a  responsibility  on  yourself,  not  knowing 
what  had  become  of  that  poor  girl?  Miss  Thorpe,  how  could  you 
ever  answer  to  your  brother  if  any  evil  had  befallen  her?" 

Miss  Thorpe  turned  perceptibly  paler.  He  was  putting  her  thoughts 
too  plainly  into  words.  "How  you  talk!"  she  returned,  angrily. 
"  Joan  is  very  impulsive  and  foolish,  but  she  knows  how  to  take  care  of 
herself.  Nothing  can  have  happened  to  her.  She  is  only  trying  to  give 
us  the  slip.  I  shall  hear  of  her  one  day." 

"  You  will  be  glad  to  hear?" 

"Undoubtedly:  it  would  b3  the  greatest  relief;  and  there  is  always 
the  danger,  too,  that  Ivan  may  question  me  more  closely  than  I  wish. 
He  has  asked  once  or  twice  after  her,  but  I  have  managed  to  satisfy 
him  without  sacrificing  the  truth.  I  am  afraid  if  Joan  does  not  write 
soon  that  I  may  have  to  tell  him  all,  but  I  am  putting  off  the  evil  day 
as  long  as  possible.  Why  are  you  looking  at  me  so  intently,  Mr.  Chad- 
leigh?" 


164  ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS. 

"  I  am  only  thinking  what  complicated  moral  machines  human  beings, 
even  the  best  of  (hem.  are.     Here  arc  you,  a  thoughtful,  sensible  wom- 
an, doing  evil  with  all  your  might  that  good  may  come,  and  just  be- 
you  know  so  clearly  it  is  evil,  you  are  quietly  blindfolding  yourself 
and  other  people.     Thank  you  for  letting  me  see  so  much  of  "the  truth. 
You  arc  quite  as  uncomfortable  about  your  sister-in-law  as  you  ought 
to  be  under  the  circumstances.     Now,  if  I  promise  to  set  your  anx- 
itrest,  will  you  give  me  your  word  of  honor  not  to  betray  my  con- 
fidence?" 

"  You  know  something  about  Joan?"  she  replied,  starting  up  in  an 
excited  way  that  verified  his  words. 

"  Most  assuredly,  but  my  news  will  be  kept  to  myself  unless  I  can  de- 
pend on  your  silence." 

"  You  know  you  can  depend  upon  it,"  she  returned,  reproachfully. 
"  Mr  Chudleigh,  please  do  not  keep  me  in  such  suspense." 

"  I  will  not.    Mrs.  Thorpe  is  at  the  Witchcns." 

"No— o— " 

' '  It  was  Mrs.  Thorpe  whom  you  saw  that  day.  She  has  been  living 
at  our  house  for  months,  indeed  for  more  than  a  year.  She  is  Miss  Ros- 
siter,  Sybil's  governess. " 

"  What  do  you  mean?  what  can  you  mean?"  and  Miss  Thorpe's  voice 
was  dry  and  husky.  "  Joan  at  the  Witchens,  and  you  never  told  us!" 
Then  very  gravely  and  very  carefully,  and  with  evident  consideration 
for  the  erring  wife,  Launcelot  put  her  in  possession  of  the  main  facts 
of  the  case. 

The  look  of  intense  relief  that  had  greeted  his  first  words  faded  from 
Miss  Thorpe's  face  as  she  listened,  and  at  the  close  a  few  sternly 
uttered  words  of  sweeping  condemnation  fell  from  her  lips. 

"  She  has  done  for  herself,"  was  her  concluding  remark.  "  Even  I, 
whom  you  think  so  hard  on  her,  would  not  have  believed  this.  Ivan 
will  never  forgive  her." 

"  Then  Ivan  is  not  the  man  I  take  him  to  be.  Fy,  Miss  Thorpe!  are 
these  the  lessons  we  learn  from  our  professed  Christianity,  '  unto  seventy 
time  seven?'  Do  you  mean  that  your  sister-in-law  has  reached  even 
those  wide  limits?" 

' '  Excuse  me,  I  can  not  reason  on  this  basis.  For  once  you  must  be 
practical  and  look  at  this  from  Ivan's  point  of  view.  In  his  eyes,  Joan 
will  have  sinned  past  all  forgiveness." 

"  Let  him  tell  me  so,  and  I  shall  know  how  to  answer  him.  Forgive 
me  if  I  tell  you  again  how  much  you  arc  disappointing  me.  I  expected 
a  more  merciful  judgment  from  a  woman,  but  I  \\ill  not  argue  the 
point  with  you  just  now.  Let  me  tell  you  what  I  intend  to  do.  I  have 
written  to  your  brother  asking  him  to  come  to  me  to-morrow  evening, 
and  then  I  shall  tell  him  everything,  and  beg  him  to  take  his  wife  under 
his  protection,  forgiving  her  as  he  will  hope  one  day  to  be  forgiven." 

"  You  will  send  Joan  back  to  us!  you  will  ask  us  to  condone  tin 
and  take  her  under  our  roof  again!    Mr.  Chudleigh,  you  can  not  be 
serious." 

"  Indeed  I  am.     This  is  your  brother's  house;  his  wife  is  its  rightful 

mistress.     The  question  lies  between  those  two  human  souls,  who  have 

irely  misunderstood  eaeli  other.     -No  M^ter  has  a  right  to  come  bc- 

itn'ian  and  his  wife.     You  see  I  am  telling  you  the  truth.    1  think 

you  have  been  much  to  blame." 

"  You  mean  because  1  would  not  leave  Ivan?     Oh,  lam  not  angry. 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  165 

You  may  say  what  you  like  to  me.  I  am  only  sorry  that  you  can  not 
take  my  part— that  you  side  with  Joan." 

A  hot  flush  swept  over  Launcelot's  face.  "  I  take  no  one's  part.  I 
am  on  the  side  of  justice  and  mercy.  I  want  to  see  a  grave  mistake 
rectified.  I  want  two  people  who  have  only  made  each  other  miserable 
to  find  the  way  to  ultimate  understanding  and  peace. ' ' 

"  But  you  think  I  am  the  hinderance  to  this." 

"  Not  intentionally,  not  with  your  own  will.  But  a  third  person  is 
always  a  disturbing  element  in  matrimonial  disputes.  I  think  it  would 
have  been  wiser  if  you  had  seen  your  way  to  leave  your  brother  and 
wife  together.  Do  you  mind  my  telling  you  this?" 

"  No,  of  course  not;  you  are  our  one  friend.  But,  Mr.  Chudleigh, 
how  can  you  have  the  heart  to  condemn  me  to  such  exile!  Ivan  is  my 
life,  he  is  all  I  have.  We  have  never  been  separated.  I  do  not  believe 
he  would  be  happy  without  me.  Joan  does  not  love  him;  she  makes 
him  miserable."  And  now  a  slow  tear  rolled  down  her  cheek. 

Launcelot  was  moved  when  he  saw  it.  With  all  her  faults,  all  her 
prejudice  and  hardness,  Rachel's  love  for  her  brother  was  a  great  ab- 
sorbing passion.  He  was  simply  her  life,  as  she  expressed  it.  She  had 
no  stores  of  tenderness  for  others;  her  strong,  reticent  nature  was  not 
capable  of  many  attachments.  From  his  boyhood  he  had  been  the  ob- 
ject of  her  tenacious  and  jealous  affection.  It  was  because  she  feared  a 
rival  that  his  marriage  had  been  so  distasteful  to  her.  Even  a  more  per- 
fect woman  than  poor,  faulty  Joan  would  have  had  to  suffer  much  at 
her  hands.  Launcelot's  shrewdness  recognized  this. 

He  had  spoken  the  truth  very  plainly  to  her,  and  now  he  would  say 
no  more  to  her.  It  needed  other  teaching  than  his  to  show  her  the 
fallacy  of  her  own  words — that  it  was  because  she  did  not  love  her 
brother  enough  that  such  self-sacrifice  was  impossible  to  her.  The 
rigid,  jealous  bonds  in  which  she  held  him  were  not  to  be  compared 
with  the  noble  selflessness  that  would  efface  itself  for  the  beloved  object, 
and  Rachel  Thorpe  had  yet  to  learn  that  the  highest  love  demands  least. 

"  I  am  truly  sorry  for  you,"  Launcelot  said,  as  he  took  leave  a  little 
later  on.  ''  I  am  afraid  I  am  only  adding  to  your  trouble  just  now, 
but  I  have  faith  in  you.  1  believe  "when  you  think  over  things  quietly 
that  you  will  come  round  to  my  opinion,  and  then  you  will  act  gener- 
ously and  like  yourself."  But  she  only  shook  her  head. 

"  I  am  an  obstinate  woman,  and  I  do  not  find  it  very  easy  to  change 
rny  views.  I  feel  and  express  myself  strongly  about  things,  Mr.  Chud- 
leigh," looking  wistfully  at  him — and  Miss  Thorpe's  eyes  could  be  ex- 
pressive when  they  chose.  "  Be  my  friend  in  one  thing;  do  not  let  Ivan 
be  angry  with  me  "  Then  he  smiled  at  her  very  kindly,  for  he  quite 
understood  where  her  fear  lay. 

"  That  is  one  thing  over,"  he  thought,  wearily,  as  he  stood  still  to 
hail  a  passing  hansom,  and,  as  a  great  wave  of  heart-sickness  passed  over 
him,  he  wondered  for  a  mojnent  how  he  was  to  go  on  living. 

He  had  said  he  was  sorry  for  her,  but  if  he  could  have  looked  back 
into  that  pretty  drawing-room  for  a  moment  and  seen  the  hard,  stony 
look  on  Rachel  Thorpe's  face  as  she  leaned  back  in  the  great  carved 
chair  and  rested  her  aching  head  against  the  woodwork,  he  would  have 
been  more  than  sorry— his  generous  heart  would  have  bled  for  her. 

Rachel  was  alone  now  and  could  think  it  out  quietly,  and  her  face 
grew  pinched  and  wan  as  an  old  woman's.  She  had  said  little  to  Launce- 
lot; the  strange  news  had  overwhelmed  her,  and  had  made  h«r  feel 
numb  and  giddy. 


166  ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS. 

"What  an  intense  relief  had  come  to  her  when  slie  found  he  could  tell 
her  news  of  Joan!  No  one  knew  what  she  had  suffered  nil  these  months 
on  that  girl's  account.  It  was  true  she  had  justified  her 
Laimcelot,  but,  all  the  same,  her  anxiety  had  been  terrible.  Often  she 
had  passed  sleepless  nights  thinking  of  Ivan's  anger  if  he  found  out  that 
she  had  no  clew  to  Joan's  whereabouts.  True,  she  had  kept  him  in  the 
dark  for  his  own  good,  but  would  he  be  grateful  to  her  for  her  silence? 
This  was  her  secret  fear. 

And  now  he  would  know  it,  and  not  from  her  lips,  and  it  was  the 
dread  of  his  anger  that  made  her  look  so  wan.  Ivan  had  never  been 
angry  with  her  in  his  life,  had  never  spoken  roughly  to  her,  and  she 
thought  how  terrible  it  would  be  to  see  his  dear  face  turned  from  her  in 
displeasure,  for  a  sudden  strong  light  seemed  to  flood  her  inner  con- 
sciousness, and  she  could  no  longer  deceive  herself  with  plausible  ex- 
cuses. She  had  prided  herself  upon  the  purity  of  her  motives,  but  as 
she  had  listened  to  Launcelot's  strange  and  inexplicable  account,  it  was 
impossible  for  her  to  deny  that  her  silence  had  been  a  grievous  mistake. 

Would  she  have  held  her  peace  for  a  single  day  if  she  could  have 
guessed  that  all  this  time  Joan  was  living  in  their  immediate  neighbor- 
hood? that  at  any  moment  they  might  meet  face  to  face?  And  then  the 
scandal  and  disgrace  of  it  all!  What  mischief  might  not  ensue  from 
such  utter  recklessness  and  disregard  of  consequences?  How  would 
Ivan  live  through  the  miserable  scenes  that  must  follow?  No,  he  would 
never  forgive  Joan,  she  repeated  over  and  over  again.  This  long  de- 
ception would  be  the  death  blow  to  his  love,  she  knew,  and  the  knowl- 
edge was  bitter  to  her  that  Ivan  was  still  fond  of  his  wife,  that  in  his 
heart  he  cherished  a  secret  hope  that  one  day  she  would  acknowledge 
her  faults  and  return  to  him. 

And  now  perhaps  he  would  be  angry  with  them  both— and  yet  if  she 
had  sinned  it  had  been  for  his  sake.  It  had  been  a  sore  moment  to  her 
wheu  she  read  condemnation  in  her  favorite's  eyes— those  honest,  gray 
that  seemed  to  read  her  through  and  through.  "  You  are  not 
acting  with  your  usual  rectitude  and  high  principle,"  he  had  said  to 
her,  but  his  voice  had  been  very  gentle,  and  she  had  winced  at  his 
words  as  though  a  dart  had  been  thrust  through  her. 

But  Launcelot's  disapproval  was  as  nothing  compared  with  Ivan's. 
And  then  she  resolved  that  if  his  anger  were  great  against  her  she  would 
try  to  bear  it  as  meekly  as  she 'could — there  should  be  no  angry  recrimi- 
nations on  her  part.  If  he  would  not  listen  to  her  defense,  she  would 
be  silent.  "It  is  in  his  power  to  punish  me  to  the  very  limits  of  my 
deserts,"  she  thought,  bitterly,  "  but  if  the  pangs  be  ever  so  great,  I  will 
not  ask  him  to  spare  me.  He  knows  me  by  this  time.  He  knows  that 
I  would  not  have  deceived  him  except  for  his  own  good."  But,  strangt 

. ,  even  this  reflection  did  not  comfort  her.     Conscience  was  ;i 
in  Rachel  Thorpe  at  last,  and  would  not  be  silenced  by  any  plausible 
sophistries. 

A ;  this  moment  she  heard  the  sound  of  her  brother's  latch-key  turning 
in  the  lock,  and  rose  hurriedly,  smoothing  her  hair  with  her  hand 
."•baking  out  the  folds  of  her  black  dress.     As  she  looked  in  th« 

lie  puckered  lines  of  her  forehead,  and  told  herself  that  she  would 
soon   be    an  old   woman;    and   then,  as  though    to  point   a   coir 
Joan's  face  seemed  to  Hush  before  her,  the  dark   Irish  brim- 

ming  over  with    life  and  fun,  the  beautiful  mouth,  full  and  pouting 
:he  small   he;id    with  its  coils  of  ruddy-brown  hair — 
Iran's  bride,  whom  he  hud  introduced  so  proudly. 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  1(37 

Ah,  how  well  she  remembered  that  moment!  There  had  been  no  shy 
ness,  no  hesitation  on  the  young  wife's  part.  Joan's  arms  had  been 
round  her  in  an  instant. 

' '  Be  good  to  me  and  love  me,  Rachel.  I  have  never  had  a  sister  of 
my  own."  These  had  been  her  first  words,  and  she  remembered  that 
while  her  own  eyes  were  dry,  Joan's  had  been  full  of  tears. 

But  this  recollection  made  her  shiver,  and  then  she  wondered  why 
Ivan  did  not  come  to  her  as  usual,  and  went  in  search  of  him. 

She  found  him  sitting  in  his  study,  apparently  doing  nothing,  for 
even  his  paper  lay  untouched  beside  him.  As  he  turned  round  at  her 
entrance  she  thought  how  tired  and  worn  he  looked.  "  Ivan  is  getting 
old,  too,"  she  thought,  with  a  sigh. 

He  held  out  his  hand  to  her;  they  were  both  undemonstrative  by 
nature,  and  except  on  rare  occasions  he  never  kissed  her.  They  both 
preferred  to  shake  hands;  in  spite  of  her  great  love  for  him,  Rachel  had 
never  shown  him  the  soft,  caressing  ways  that  most  women  delight  in; 
such  ways  were  not  natural  to  her.  The  perfect  friendship  that  sub- 
sisted between  them  did  not  need  any  outward  manifestation  of  tender- 
ness. 

"  You  are  tired,  Ivan." 

"  I  was  just  thinking  the  same  thing  of  you,"  he  returned,  quietly. 
"  It  is  the  heat,  I  suppose,  that  makes  you  look  so  pale.  Can  you  spare 
a  moment  to  sit  down?  I  want  to  tell  you  something.  You  remember 
Uncle  Joseph?" 

"  Yes,  indeed;  one  could  hardly  forget  his  cranky  temper.  It  gave 
me  a  horror  of  gout  when  I  was  quite  a  girl." 

"Well,  he  is  dead." 

"  Dead!  Poor  old  man!  Still,  it  is  a  comfort  to  know  that  he  has 
left  no  one  to  mourn  for  him." 

"  Except  you  and  me,  you  undutiful  niece.  I  wish  you  could  con- 
trive to  drop  one  tear  to  his  memory." 

"  Nonsense,  Ivan.  Why,  we  have  never  even  seen  the  old  man  for 
the  last  ten  years." 

"  He  has  left  me  sole  legatee,  however.  I  had  no  idea  he  was  worth 
so  much,  he  kept  everything  so  close.  Wyverne  came  up  to  the  office 
to-day.  He  says,  when  things  are  cleared  there  will  be  about  seven  or 
eight  hundred  a  year.  The  furniture  is  not  good  for  much,  and  the 
plate  is  electro,  but  there  are  some  good  books.  ' 

"  My  dear  Ivan,  I  am  so  glad.  Poor  Uncle  Joseph!  we  all  said  he 
would  leave  his  money  to  some  hospital,  but  of  course  he  has  done  the 
right  thing:  you  were  his  only  nephew." 

"  He  might  have  remembered  you  too,  Rachel." 

"  Oh,  no,  I  have  no  need  for  money,  except  for  my  society.  I  woulcj 
much  rather  have  it  as  it  is.  Seven  hundred  a  year!  Why,  Ivan,  you 
will  be  quite  a  rich  man  with  all  that  and  the  '  Imperial  Review  ' — you 
are  saving  money  now." 

"I  do  not  care  to  be  rich,"  he  returned,  indifferently.  "  1  am  like 
you,  Rachel,  I  have  no  special  love  of  mone}r;  we  neither  of  us  have  ex- 
pensive tastes;  this  house  is  large  enough  for  two,"  looking  round  the 
email  study.  "  If  things  had  been  otherwise — "  and  then  he  broke  off 
with  a  sigh. 

A  lump  seemed  to  gather  in  Rachel's  throat  as  she  looked  at  him. 
This  money  gave  him  no  pleasure;  then  it  would  add  no  new  interest 
to  his  life. 

The  quiet  routine  of  work  and  fraternal  intercourse  that  contented  hei 


168  ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS. 

did  not  satisfy  Ivan.  At  that  moment  she  realized  the  difference  in  their 
natures.  She  asked  nothing  more  of  life  than  to  go  on  from  day  in  day 
as  she  was  doing  now — busy  daylight  hours  spent  in  benefiting  her  poor 
fellow-creatures,  peaceful  evenings  alone  with  Ivan. 

But  he,  the  lonely  man,  wanted  his  bright  young  wife's  presence;  he 
yearned  for  children  to  climb  upon  his  knee  and  call  him  father.  There 
were  times  when  he  would  rather  see  Joan's  face  opposite  to  him  in  its 
angry  rebellion  and  discontent  than  to  sit  there  looking  into  vacancy. 

When  Rachel  had  made  some  excuse  to  leave  him,  he  rose  and  unlocked 
a  little  drawer  in  his  writing-table.  It  was  full  of  his  treasures— some 
photographs  of  Joan,  taken  during  their  wedding-tour;  the  gloves  she 
had  worn  as  a  bride;  the  first  flower  she  had  given  him;  a  lock  of  shin- 
ing brown  hair;  two  or  three  letters,  and  a  little  chain  she  had  left  be- 
hind her,  and  which  he  found  lying  on  his  table. 

"  She  said  once  she  wanted  a  locket  with  a  diamond  star,"  he  thought; 
"  she  had  a  fancy  for  diamonds — indeed,  for  all  bright  things.  I  wanted 
to  save  up  and  buy  her  one,  only  Rachel  said  it  would  be  wrong  and 
foolish  in  our  position.  I  could  buy  it  now  with  Uncle  Joseph's  money. 
I  could  give  her  everything  she  wanted,  but  she  wants  nothing  from 
me!"  and  then  he  sat  down  moodily,  and  the  gold  links  of  the  chain 
lay  in  the  palm  of  his  hand.  "  A  more  lonely  hearted  man  never  lived 
than  Ivan  Thorpe,"  Latincelot  had  said,  and  in  this  he  was  right. 


CHAPTER   XXVI. 

"NO,   NOT  TOO  LATE,   MY  CHILD." 

Great  feelings  hath  she  of  her  own, 

Which  lesser  souls  may  never  know ; 
God  giveth  them  to  her  alone, 
And  sweet  they  are  as  any  tone  » 

Wherewith  the  wind  may  choose  to  blow. 

LOWELL. 

IP  Launcelot  had  found  his  afternoon's  work  harassing  his  step-moth- 
er had  also  been  much  tried  by  her  interview  with  Joan. 

Mrs.  Chudleigh  possessed  one  of  those  temperate,  equable  natures  that 
are  singularly  averse  to  either  physical  or  moral  storms.  The  least  ap- 
proach to  electricity  in  the  atmosphere,  or  to  any  disturbing  influence 
that  threatened  a  probable  scene,  seemed  to  flutter  her  nervous 
bilities.  She  could  not  understand  a  noisy  grief,  having  always  covered 
the  face  of  her  own  dead  sorrows  with  a  decent  mantle  of  reserve  and 
sacred  silence. 

She  had  always  borne  her  own  troubles  with  a  certain  sweet  dignity 
that  robbed  them  of  all  bitterness;  she  had  loved  her  husband  dearly, 
and  she  loved  him  still,  not  believing  in  any  possible  disunion  of  th<*e 
whom  God  had  joined  together.  But  though  she  had  mourned  most 
truly  for  him,  not  one  of  her  children  had  ever  heard  her  say  a  single 
repining  or  rebellious  word. 

Want  of  self-control,  frantic  asseverations,  found  no  sympathy  with 
her.  "  My  dear,  you  are  making  it  all  so  much  harder  for  yourself," 
id  once  to  a  young  widow,  who  was  bemoaning  herself;  "  we  must 
not  light  against  God.  Why  don't  yon  give;  it  all  up,  like  a  tired-out 
child,  and  ask  Him  to  help  yon  bear  it?  That  is  what  I  did  when  my 
hu-band  died,  and  the  help  always  came." 

She  had  sent  up  a  nx  ihe  school-room  by  Dossie  that  she 

wished  to  speak  to  the  governess,  and  nould  be  with  her  in  half  an 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  169 

hour's  time.  Then  she  made  arrangements  for  the  little  girls  to  walk 
over  to  Wimberley  with  one  of  the  maids,  and  as  soon  as  she  had  seen 
them  off  the  premises  she  went  upstairs  with  a  heavy  heart.  She  had 
promised  Launcelot  to  do  her  best  for  the  girl,  but  all  the  same  she  felt 
as  though  she  never  wished  to  see  her  again. 

Joan  was  standing  by  the  table  as  she  entered,  as  though  she  had  risen 
at  the  sound  of  her  approaching  footsteps.  There  was  something  pathetic 
in  her  look  and  attitude.  She  wore  a  white  gown  and  a  little  black  lace 
kerchief  loosely  knotted  round  her  neck;  her  cheeks  were  pale,  and  her 
eyes  had  the  dim  heaviness  they  had  worn  for  days;  and  her  hair, 
usually  so  carefully  arranged,  clung  damply  to  her  temples,  as  though 
she  had  been  lying  down  and  had  forgotten  to  smooth  it. 

Mrs.  Chudleigh  hesitated  a  moment,  and,  in  spite  of  all  resolve,  pity 
began  to  agitate  her  motherly  bosom.  The  girl  looked  very  ill. 

"  Are  you  sure  that  you  are  fit  to  be  up?"  she  began,  softly;  "  shall 
we  wait  until  to-morrow?'  But  Joan  shook  her  head  vehemently  at 
this  proposition. 

"  I  shall  not  be  any  better  to-morrow;  I  would  rather  have  it  over." 
Then  Mrs.  Chudleigh  sat  down  by  the  table,  evidently  expecting  Joan 
to  follow  her  example,  but  the  girl  did  not  alter  her  position :  she  stood 
before  her,  with  her  hands  tightly  grasping  each  other,  and  her  eyes 
fixed  on  the  carpet. 

"  My  dear,  I  can  not  talk  to  you  like  this;  will  you  not  sit  down?" 
but  again  Joan  shook  her  head. 

"  No,  Mrs.  Chudleigh,  I  will  not  sit  down  in  your  presence — a  cul- 
prit does  not  sit  before  his  judge,  and  you  are  my  judge."  And  then 
she  looked  up,  and  the  tears  began  to  gather  to  her  eyes,  and  the  muscles 
of  her  white  throat  worked,  and  a  sort  of  sob  seemed  to  choke  her  utter- 
ance— and  the  next  instant  she  was  at  Mrs.  Chudleigh 's  feet,  and  her 
face  was  hidden  in  her  lap,  and  the  elder  woman  could  feel  the  passion- 
ate heavings  of  her  breast. 

"  My  dear,  my  dear,  this  will  never  do!"  she  began,  in  gentle  reproof, 
putting  her  hand  on  the  girl's  head  and  trying  to  raise  her,  but  Joan 
resisted  with  all  her  strength.  "  This  will  do  neither  of  us  any  good." 

"  I  will  not  move  until  you  have  forgiven  me!  Oh,  I  can  see  how 
angry  you  are!  You  have  never  looked  at  me  like  that  before,  and  I 
can  not  bear  it!  I  think  it  will  break  my  heart  if  you  do  not  forgive 
me!  I  love  you  so,  and  now  you  will  tell  me  that  you  can  never  trust 
me  again!" 

"  Will  you  sit  down  quietly  and  hear  what  I  have  to  say?"  But  she 
might  as  well  have  spoken  to  the  wind — only  a  sob  answered  her. 

' '  You  are  so  good  yourself  that  you  can  not  understand  how  a  poor 
girl  can  be  so  bad,  but  indeed — indeed — I  never  meant  to  be  wicked.  I 
was  so  unhappy  and  I  wanted  to  be  free,  and  there  was  no  other  way 
than  this,  and  I  knew  people  often  changed  their  names,  and  I  never 
thought  about  consequences,  and  how  you  would  all  think  I  had  de- 
ceived you.  I  know  now  what  remorse  means,  and  what  Esau  felt 
'  when  he  found  no  room  for  repentance. '  I  would  undo  it  all  if  I 
could,  but  it  is  too  late." 

"  No,  not  too  late,  my  child,  but  it  is  not  to  me  you  ought  to  kneel." 
Then  Joan  lifted  her  head  slowly,  and  fixed  her  mournful  eyes  on  Mrs. 
Chudleigh's  face;  their  appealing  sorrow  touched  her  more  than  any 
words. 

"  You  mean  my  husband?  you  are  thinking  of  Ivan?  Well,  I  should 
have  been  at  his  feet  long  ago  if  he  had  been  less  hard  to  me.  You  RPQ 


1?0  OKI  I- S3. 

angry  with  me,  and  justly  too,  and  yet  you  can  spcnk  gently;  you  do  not 
keep'  me  ;it  ;i  distance  with  the  blackness  of  yuur  frown.     I  love  to  be 
me   feel    better  only  to   hold  your  Then  Mrs. 

C'luullei-'li  smiled  faintly  and  took  the  girl's  hands  be! \veon  her  own. 

"  .loan—  shall  I  call  you  Joan?— will  you  listen  to  me,  as  though  you 
my  dauixh' 

sar  Mrs.  Cliudlci^h,  I  will;  I  will  do  anything,  bear  anything, 
if  you  will  only  forgive  me',  and  mil  me  .Joan." 

:>  I  shall  hold  you'  to  that  presently,  but  now  let  me  ask  you  a  ques- 
tion, for  I  fear  you  are  very  ignorant  as  well  as  willful.  Do  you 
acknowledge  Mr.  Thorpe  to  be  jrour  true  and  lawful  husband?  will  you 
own  that  you  are  bound  to  him  by  the  laws  of  God  and  the  Chun 

"  Yes/'  rather  reluctantly.     "  Of  course,  Ivan  and  I  were  married." 

"  Then  whether  you  love'him  or  not,  you  owe  him  a  life's  oliedi 
And  thereupon,  to  the  girl's  astonishment,  she  broke  into  a  little  homily 
on  wifely  duties. 

If  the  husband  who  had  loved  her  so  well  had  heard  that  flood  of 
silvery  eloquence,  his  purified  intelligence  would  have  most  surely  re- 
joiced.    To  Joan  it  was  a  new  language,  a  revelation.     No  one  h 
spoken  to  her  before  as  this  sweet  woman  was  speaking  to  her  now. 

Were  such  things  possible  in  this  wicked  world?  Were  there  really 
men  and  women — mere  flesh  and  blood — who  had  so  conquered  the  old 
Adam  within  them  that  they  walked  through  life  carrying  the  white 
standard  unsullied  through  the  enemy's  country?  AY.ere  such  purity 
•and  self-sacrifice  attainable?  Then,  indeed,  even  unhappy,  disappointed 
lives  had  their  own  lovely  meanings. 

' '  People  are  always  blaming  circumstances  for  what  is  often  their 
own  fault,"  went  on  Mrs.  Chudleigh.  "  1  have  heard  women  complain- 
ing of  their  husbands,  and  mothers  of  their  children,  when  the  trouble 
lies  in  their  own  unhappy  natures.  I  wish  I  were  a  wise  woman  for 
your  sake.  But  I  have  daughters  of  my  own,  and  mothers  learn  a 
deal  from  their  children,  and  God  has  given  me  a  noble  son,  who' has 
taught  me  ,.i;iny  things.  And  I  want  to  tell  you  this,  that  though  we 
arc  not  to  blame  for  circumstances,  yet  we  are  responsible  for  tin 
•>ve  'lira  them  to  account,  and  that  we  owe  duties  to  the  human  beings 
who  share  our  homes.  To  be  happy  or  unhappy  may  not  be  in  your 
pwn  power,  but  there  is  one  question  that  will  be  demanded  of  you — 
'  How  have  you  done  your  duty  to  the  husband  whom  you  vowed  before 
•  .  love,'  honor  r.r^d  obey?'  "  And  then  it  was  that  Joan  bowed  her 
stricken  through  her  heart  and  conscience. 

"I  should  have  been  good  if  you  had  been  rny  mother,"  she  said, 
simply.  And  this  little  speech  touched  Mrs.  Chudleigh  extremely. 

"  Yes,  but  you  will  be  good  now,  will  you  not,  for  1  am  gn'wj;  t<>  kiss 
you  in  assurance  01  my  forgiveness?    But  there  is  soim-thing  ymi  must, 
i— you  must  put  on  your  wedding-ring." 

A  painful  blush  came  to  Joan's  cheek,  but  she  made  no  answer,  only 
unfastened  her  black  luce  kerchief ,  and  drew  a  little  hair  chain  within 
\vith  two  ^Utterinrr  rings  attached  to  it.     At   a  siirn  from 
leigh  she  put  them  on— the  thick  gold  ring  with  its  nns-ive  1 
—but  her  tears  fell  fast  as  she  obeyed,  and  she  seemed  ~-(r 

•"  That  is  the  first  step  in  the  right  direction,"  «  irs.  Chud- 

leigh; and  then  she;  put   her  arms  round  the  prl  and  kissed  her  fore- 
Joan,  you  will  go  back  to  your  husband  like  a  brave, 
true  hearted  wife." 


CWLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  171 

"Go  lodck!"  evidently  shrinking  at  her  words.  "Do  you  really 
mean  I  must  go  back  to  her  and  to  that  life — death  rather,  for  it  was  no 
life?" 

"Never  mind  all  that.  There  is  no  she  in  the  question;  it  lies  be- 
tween you  and  your  husband.  Go  back.  Of  course  you  must  go  back 
to  him  if  he  will  open  his  doors  to  you.  Oh,  Joan!  you  are  very  young, 
but  the  young  die  sometimes.  Think  what  it  would  be  if  death  came 
and  found  you  outside  the  path  of  duty— how  terrible  would  be  his 
message,  '  The  Master  has  come,  and  calleth  for  theel'  ' 

Joaii  shuddered. 

"  Oh,  I  know  I  am  not  fit  to  die." 

11  We  are  none  of  us  fit;  but  I  think  we  are  more  ready  to  go  when 
we  are  in  our  right  place,  where  He  has  put  us.  To  leave  it  is  to  be  like 
the  sentinel  leaving  his  post  before  he  is  relieved.  Oh,  I  am  always  so 
sorry  for  people  who  lose  their  way,  and  never  think  of  these  things.  " 

"  I  have  never  thought  of  them  before." 

"  Then  you  must  make  up  for  lost  time,  my  dear.  You  must  be  very 
humble  before  your  husband,  for  your  sin  against  him  has  been  very 
great.  If  he  should  refuse  to  forgive  you,  you  must  just  set  yourself  to 
obey  hfm,  and  wait  patiently  until  he  shows  signs  of  softening.  Men 
are 'not  like  us,"  finished  the  simple  woman,  "  they  are  more  masterful; 
and  when  they  have  the  right  on  their  side  they  will  not  stoop  to  a  com- 
promise. Mr".  Thorpe  may  feel  that  you  have  forfeited  his  trust." 

"  He  will  not  forgive  me!  I  can  not  expect  him  to  do  so!"  she  re- 
turned, in  a  low  voice.  "  If  I  were  to  humble  myself  ever  so  much,  he 
would  only  turn  from  me.  Rachel  says  he  has  quite  ceased  to  love 
me." 

"  Rachel  may  be  wrong. " 

"  There  is  no  hope  for  me— with  Rachel.  When  you  were  talking 
just  now  I  thought  I  should  like  to  try  again  and  do  better,  but  with 
her  it  would  be  impossible.  Of  course  everything  she  says  is  true;  but 
somehow  one:s  faults  seem  magnified  in  that  strong,  hard  light.  She 
can  not  make  allowances  for  my  undisciplined  nature  and  imperfect 
education.  She  thinks  I  am  all  bad." 

"  Never  mind;  you  must  be  patient  over  this  too.  Remember  how 
much  reason  you  have  given  her  for  her  complaints.  If  I  were  in  her 
place  I  should  find  it  very  difficult  to  forgive  you  for  making  a  brother 
»o  miserable." 

Then  Joan  remained  silent;  but  a  few  moments  afterward  she  said, 
in  rather  a  shamefaced  way — 

"  Mrs.  Chudleigh,  may  I  say  something  about  your  son?" 

Then  a  sudden  color  suff use*d  Mrs.  Chudleigh's  fair,  middle-aged  face. 

"  No,  my  dear,"  she  said,  quietly,  "  I  think  not."t 

"  Just  as  you  wish,"  returned  Joan,  in  a  proud  voice.  "  It  was  only 
because  I  thought  you  had  a  right  to  know  that  I  wished  to  tell  you." 

And  then  she  softened,  and  her  beautiful  eyes  had  their  misty  look 
again.  "  Oh!  I  must  tell  you  how  good  he  is.  Once  or  twice  when  he 
was  talking  to  me  I  thought  he  was  mors  like  an  angel  than  a  man.  He 
did  not  think  of  himself,  only  of  me,  wanting  me  to  be  good.  That  is 
how  the  angels  feel,  do  they  not?  I — I  have  such  a  pain  here,"  press- 
ing her  hands  to  her  heart,  ' '  when  I  think  that  perhaps  I  have  caused 
him  trouble  too." 

"  My  »on  is  a  good  man,"  returned  Mrs.  Chudleigh,  with  dignity; 
"things  will  not  hurt  him  long.  God  will  take  care  of  that;  you 
must  leave  all  that,  and  think  only  how  you  are  to  be  reconciled  to  youi 


172  ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS. 

husband."  And  then  she  rose,  and  bidding  the  girl  gently  go  to  hei 
room  and  think  it  all  out  quietly  on  her  knees,  "  for  it  is  there  we  learn 
to  bear  our  troubles,  Joan,  '  she  finished,  she  went  slowly  and  sadly 
down-stairs. 

Sadly,  because  it  was  of  her  boy  she  was  thinking,  and  not  of  poor, 
repentant  Joan.  "  Is  it  any  wonder?"  she  said  to  herself.  "  With  all 
her  faults  how  can  any  one  Kelp  loving  her?  My  heart  went  out  to  her 
in  a  moment.  Launcelot  is  right;  she  is  as  ignorant  and  innocent  as  a 
child.  No  one  has  taught  her  anything.  Poor  thing!  poor  young 
thing!  And  he  would  have  understood  her  and  made  her  happy." 
And  then  she  blamed  herself  for  these  thoughts.  "  What  am  I  think- 
ing about?  and  there  is  that  ill-used  husband  to  be  considered.  Oh!  ho 
must  forgive  her.  We  can  none  of  us  stand  seeing  Joan  unhappy." 

On  entering  the  dining-room  she  was  somewhat  surprised  to  find 
Lauucelot  walking  restlessly  up  and  down  the  long  room.  Directly  he 
caught  sight  of  her  he  hurried  up  to  her. 

"  Well,  Madella?"  in  an  inquiring  tone;  and  there  was  no  mistaking 
the  anxiety  visible  on  his  face. 

"You  were  right,"  she  answered,  quietly.  "After  all,  I  did  not 
find  it  difficult  to  forgive  her."  Then  he  gave  her  a  grateful  look,  and 
as  the  little  girls  just  then  made  their  appearance,  nothing  more  passed 
between  them. 

But  later  in  the  evening  they  had  a  long  talk  together  as  they  paced 
up  and  down  the  terrace,  with  the  moonlight  making  every  furze-bush 
visible  on  the  common,  while  the  sweet  fragrance  of  a  thousand  flowers 
came  refreshingly  from  the  garden;  and  though  their  lips  were  sealed 
then  and  forever  on  one  subject,  what  eloquence  was  in  that  silence! 

It  was  well  for  Launcelot  that  at  this  period  of  heart  loneliness  and 
inward  desolation,  when  all  the  fair  dreams  of  his  manhood  lay  shattered 
around  him,  this  womanly  sympathy  had  power  to  comfort  him. 

Mrs.  Chudleigh  was  not  a  strong-minded  woman.  Her  children  never 
heard  her  say  clever  things.  She  did  not  read  much,  nevertheless  her 
influence  wras  great  with  them.  Her  grown-up  sons  respected  the  sim- 
ple goodness  that  seemed  to  surround  her  with  an  atmosphere  of  j 
A  loving  heart  had  taught  her  the  secret  of  sympathy.  She  knew  when 
to  speak  and  when  to  be  silent. 

She  listened  with  deep  interest  to  Launcelot's  account  of  his  interview 
with  Rachel  Thorpe,  and  then  they  talked  together  very  solemnly  of  the 
painful  ordeal  of  the  morrow. 

"  I  wish  I  could  spare  you  that,  Launce,"  she  said,  wistfully.     "  You 
do  not  know  how  I  am  blaming  myself  for  all  that  has  happened;  #our 
dear  father  always  said  I  was  an  injudicious  woman,  and  indeed  i 
he  was  right. ' ' 
•hulella!" 

"  Indeed,  Launce,  I  do  feel  that  you  have  a  right  to  be  angry  with 
me." 

"  It  is  a  right  I  have  no  desire  to  use,  Madella.  We  are  too  much  to 
each  other;  we  can  not  afford  to  be  angry.  \Vhut  should  I  do  without 
you  now?  No  mother  could  be  more  to  me  than  you  are." 

"  My  dean-si  boy!" 

"  You  must  not' trouble  yourself  about  a  past  mistake.  I  think  our 
mistakes  and  failures  are  often  turned  to  good  even  in  this  world. 


What  does  a  little  pain  and  difficulty  matter  it' we  can  only  put  Mrs. 
Thorpe  in  her  rightful  place  again?"     And  after  u  little  r 


inoie  Mieh  talk 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  173 

they  separated,  and  Mrs.  Chudleigh  went  up  to  Joan's  room.  She  felt 
she  could  not  rest  until  she  knew  whether  the  girl  were  asleep. 

She  found  her  lying  wide  awake,  and,  though  the  room  was  dark,  she 
knew  at  once  by  her  voice  that  she  had  been  weeping. 

"  My  clear,  it  is  twelve  o'clock,  and  you  are  not  asleep!" 

"  How  can  I  sleep?"  she  returned,  restlessly.  "  I  do  nothing  but 
think.  I  go  over  it  all  again  and  again,  and  it  seems  to  me  as  though 
no  girl  had  ever  been  so  wicked.  How  can  I  expect  Ivan  to  forgive 
me?" 

"  Hush!  I  can  not  let  you  talk  now.  You  will  make  yourself  ill." 
returned  Mrs.  Chudleigh,* in  a  soothing,  motherly  voice,  as  she  felt  with 
dismay  the  girl's  burning  hands  and  forehead.  *'  The  children  say  you 
have  eaten  nothing.  I  am  going  to  bring  you  some  lemonade,  and  you 
must  drink  it,  and  then  1  shall  bathe  your  face  and  hands,  and  perhaps 
you  may  fall  asleep."  As  Joan  thanked  her  and  submitted  gratefully 
to  her  gentle  manipulations,  she  added,  quietly,  "  I  am  very  wakeful 
myself,  and  do  not  feel  inclined  for  my  bed.  I  mean  to  sit  in  this  com- 
fortable chair  by  the  window,  for  I  have  much  to  think  about.  Do  not 
take  any  notice  of  me;  I  do  not  wish  to  talk.  Close  your  eyes  and  try 
to  lie  quiet,  and  the  restlessness  will  pass.  What  is  it  you  want,  my 
dear?"— for  the  girl  held  her  fast. 

"  May  1  kiss  you?  Oh,  how  I  love  you!" — half  hysterically — "  how 
good  you  are  to  me!  You  know  how  dreadful  the  night  is  with  alf 
these  thoughts,  and  that  is  why  you  stay." 

"  If  you  talk  I  must  go,"  she  replied,  gently,  for  she  knew  by  the 
strained,  highly  pitched  voice  that  Joan  must  be  soothed  at  all  costs. 
This  girl,  who  was  always  in  extremes,  was  now  suffering  the  pangs  of 
acute'remorse. 

"  Oil,  that  I  could  be  a  child  again,  that  I  could  undo  the  past!"  she 
moaned  as  she  fell  back  upon  her  pillows.  "Sleep!  Shall  I  ever  sleep 
and  forget!"  But  even  as  she  spoke  a  strange  sort  of  drowsiness  crept 
over  her,  a  quieting  influence  that  seemed  to  lull  the  agony.  She 
thought  it  was  owing  to  the  soothing  presence  of  the  good  friend  who 
watched  beaide  her,  but  Mrs.  Chudleigh  knew  otherwise;  she  was  only 
waiting  until  the  sedative  she  had  mixed  in  the  lemonade  had  taken 
effect.  And  when  in  less  than  an  hour  the  girl's  regular  breathing  sat- 
isfied her  that  she  was  asleep,  she  quietly  left  the  room. 

That  long  sleep  saved  Joan.  It  was  late  before  she  woke — nearly 
noon— and  the  maid  who  brought  her  coffee  told  her  that  the  little  girls 
had  done  their  lessons  with  Mrs.  Chudleigh,  and  were  now  playing  in 
the  garden, 

"  And  if  you  please,  ma'am,"  continued  Emma,  looking  very  serious 
and  round-eyed,  "  the  mistress  hopes  that  you  will  be  quite  easy  about 
them,  as  they  are  going  to  drive  with  her  this  afternoon,  and  you  need 
not  trouble  to  come  down  to  luncheon  unless  you  feel  inclined." 

"  Mrs.  Chudleigh  is  very  kind,"  returned  Joan,  feebly,  for  she  felt 
as  though  her  strength  were  gone.  Still  she  managed  to  dress  herself, 
and  when  Mrs.  Chudleigh  came  in  search  of  he*r  an  hour  later  she  found 
her  by  the  school-room  window  trying  to  occupy  herself  with  some 
needle-work. 

"  Are  you  better,  Joan." 

"  Yes,  I  think  so;  thank  you.  I  had  such  a  beautiful  sleep;  the  pain 
has  quite  gone  out  of  my  head." 

"  That  is  well/  but  it  has  left  you  pale  and  weak.    Now  I  am  going 


174  ONLY    THE 

to  take  the  children  out,  mid  wo  shall  not  lv  hack  uutil  dinner-time.     I 
have  risked  "Mrs.  Foil  wick  to  look  after  \ 

"  Does  she  know?"  asked  Joan,  in  rather  a  trembling  voice. 

"The  whole  house  knows  by  this  time,"  returned  Mrs.  Chudleigh, 
gravely.     "To-morrow,  when  the  girls  come  back,  I  will  tell 
myself." 

"  Pauline  will  never  speak  to  me  again!" 

"  You  must  not  say  that.  Pauline  is  young,  and  of  course  she  will 
be  much  shocked.  She  is  so  absolutely  true,  that  truth  seems  indis- 
pensable to  her.  You  must  not  mind  if  she  be  hard  at  first  in  her 
judgment." 

"  Oh,  no,  no!  I  deserve  hardness.  You  must  not  ask  her  to  be  kind 
to  me.  I  know  we  can  never  be  friends  again;"  but  to  this  Mrs.  Chud- 
leigh  made  no  reply.  She  knew  her  young  daughter  too  well  to  < 
a  charitable  estimate  of  Joan's  conduct.  Bee  would  be  less  severe  than 
Pauline;  her  uncompromising  honesty  never  could  comprehend  any 
dereliction  of  truth.  "Everybody  always  tells  the  truth,  mamma," 
she  had  said  once  when  quite  a  little  girl;  "  only  wicked  people  tell  lies, 
and  none  of  them  go  to  heaven,"  and  she  had  scarcely  modified  her 
views  on  this  point. 

Joan  did  not  try  to  deceive  herself.  She  knew  she  had  forfeited  the 
good  opinion  of  all  these  good  friends— the  Miss  Rossiter  they  loved 
and  trusted  had  never  really  existed. 

"  I  should  not  mind  being  so  unhappy  if  I  could  only  undo  it  all," 
she  thought;  and  again  those  pathetic,  heart-searching  words  cai 
her  mind,  "  He  found  no  place  for  repentance,  though  he  sought  it  care- 
fully with  tears." 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

IN   THE  STUDIO. 

Love  exists  not  without  hope,  but  mine  was  as  nearly  allied  to  despair  as  that  of 
a  sailor  swimming  for  his  life. -The  Talixmun. 

LAUNCELOT  had  given  orders  that  Mr.  Thorpe  should  be  brought  at 
once  to  the  studio  and  that  coitec  should  be  served  there.     Wl;< 
friend  was  announced,  he  put  down  his  paper  and  greeted  him  with  his 
accustomed  cordiality,  and  Mr.  Thorpe  noticed  nothing  unusual  in  his 
manner. 

"  Your  peremptorily  worded  note  rather  frightened  me,"  he  ob- 
cheerfully;  "'pressing  business  on  which  you  needed  my  opinion-.' 
That  was  pretty  strong.    I  had  a  paper  to  finish  on  the  minor  Am. 
novelists,  but  I  thought  I  would  spare  you  an  hour,  and  make  it  up  by 
a  little  less  sleep.     What's  in  the  wind,  Chudleigh?    Now 
look  at  you,  you  don't  seem  quite  up  to  the  mark." 

"  Oh,  yes.    I  am  pretty  fit,  thank  you." 

"  Nothing  really  wrong,  I  hope?" 

"  Wei.,  it  is  rather  an  upsetting  business  altogether;   but  wo  will 
come  to  that  presently.     Take  a  cup  of  coffee  after  your  walk,  Ti: 
I  am  sorry  if  I  have  put  you  to  any  inconvenience,  but  th< 
time  to  be  lost." 

!ng  wrong  about  investments,  1  hope?     You  are  rather  an  un- 
practical fellow.     Rachel  says  you r  "      :hor  like  1" 
will  cat  up  all  your  E                      I  fancy  J  am  in  the  position  to  give  you 
advice,  for  I  have  come,  into  a  tidy  little  fortune  since  I  saw  you." 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  175 

"  Not  really?" 

"  Yes,  a  certain  elderly  relative  has  departed  this  life  and  left  me  his 
little  all.  Oh,  it  will  not  seem  much  to  a  millionaire  like  you,  but  for  a 
struggling  literary  man  seven  hundred  a  year  means  riches." 

"My  dear  fellow,  1  am  so  glad!  No  man  deserves  good  fortune 
more." 

"  And  no  man  cares  for  it  less,  wild  tout''  Then  Launcelot  looked 
up  rather  sharply. 

"  Yes,  I  understand;  but  you  will  change  your  mind  about  that. 
You  work  too  hard,  Thorpe.  There  will  be  no  need  for  burning  the 
midnight  oil  now." 

"  There  never  has  been,  in  the  way  you  put  it;  if  I  work  hard  it  is 
because  I  have  no  interest  outside  my  work.  I  begin  to  understand 
why  some  men  get  into  such  grooves :  they  go  on  from  day  to  day  like 
mere  machines— rather  rusty  ones,  too — they  have  no  other  life."  * 

"  Oh,  you  must  change  all  that  now,"  returned  Launcelot,  absently, 
and  then  he  looked  at  his  friend,  who  was  enjoying  his  coffee  leisurely 
and  moralizing  over  it.  Mr.  Thorpe  looked  better  this  evening:  his 
clever,  well-cut  face  had  a  more  animated  expression.  Launcelot's  so- 
ciety Always  roused  and  interested  him. 

' '  Yes,  we  must  change  all  that, ' '  repeated  Launcelot,  as  he  rose  from 
the  chair,  and  walking  to  the  other  end  of  the  room  began  lighting  two 
lamps  held  by  bronze  figures.  Mr.  Thorpe  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and 
watched  him. 

"  Do  we  need  all  this  illumination?  But  perhaps  you  intend  to  show 
me  your  picture.  Do  you  mean  to  say  it  is  finished  after  all?" 

"  No;  but  I  should  like  to  have  your  opinion  for  all  that.  Wait  until 
I  have  arranged  the  light;  there  is  no  hurry;"  but  Launcelot's  hand 
shook  a  little  as  he  uncovered  the  easel,  and  the  beautiful  fresh  face  of 
his  Elizabeth  seemed  to  flash  from  the  canvas.  But  Mr.  Thorpe  did  not 
notice  his  nervousness,  he  was  looking  round  the  magnificent  room  with 
undisguised  admiration. 

"  This  is  how  you  rich  artists  live,"  he  observed,  sarcastically,  "  like 
art  princes.  Those  hangings  are  Venetian,  are  they  not?  That  cabinet 
looks  to  me  priceless.  1  ought  to  see  these  things  by  daylight.  I  con- 
fess I  have  a  weakness  myself  for  old  oak.  You  have  managed  badly. 
You  ought  to  have  invited  me  to  afternoon  tea,  and  received  me  in  your 
old  velvet  coat— your  conventional  war-paint  does  not  seem  to  suit  your 
surroundings." 

"  Oh,  I  have  just  come  from  the  dinner- table,  and  have  not  changed 
my  coat;"  and  then  Launcelot  added,  hastily,  "  If  you  will  excuse  me 
for  a  moment,  Thorpe,  I  shall  be  glad  to  get  into  something  more  com- 
fortable, as  we  are  not  going  into  the  drawing-room,  and  you  can  look 
round  you  while  I  am  gone,"  and  as  Mr.  Thorpe  nodded  acquiescence 
Launcelot  left  the  room. 

"  That  is  the  best  plan  after  all,"  he  thought,  as  he  walked  through 
the  glass  corridor  door.  "  What  a  fool  one  is  at  this  sort  of  thing!  I 
felt  it  was  impossible  to  begin  the  subject." 

Launcelot  had  acted  on  a  momentary  impulse  in  thus  absenting  him- 
self, but  whea  ten  minutes  later  he  returned  in  his  old  brown  velvet 
coat,  he  knew  he  had  done  the  right  thing;  he  felt  it  as  he  stood  on  the 
threshold  and  saw  his  friend  standing  motionless  before  the  easel,  a 
black  rigid  figure  between  the  two  bronze  slaves  holding  the  pure  white 
globes  of  light  in  their  uplifted  arms.  At  the  sound  of  the  opening 
door,  Mr.  Thorpe  half  turned.  "  Chudleigh,  come  here!"  and  there 


176  ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS. 

was  something  changed  and  hoarse  in  his  voice.     Laimcelot  obeyed, 
and  stood  s-ilently  beside  liim. 

.Mr.  Thorpe  pointed  stitlly  to  the  canvas.     "  What  does  that  m« 
••  Where— where-— have  you  seen  her?" 

"  You  reeogni/.e  it,  then?"  was  the  quiet  rejoinder. 

"  Rccogni/e  i!  \'    he    repeated,  with  rising  excitement   in  his  \ 
41  Are  there  two  faces  like  that?   Could  any  other  woman  look  like  lliat? 
Do  you  suppose  I  do  not  know  my  own  wife?    That  is  Joan!— Joan!— 
'and  here,  a  living  man." 

"You  are  right,"  returned  Launcelot;  "the  lady  who  did  me  the 
honor  to  .sit  for  that  central  figure  is  Mrs.  Thorpe." 

"  What!"  turning  on  him  with  a  look  terrible  to  see  on  any  man's 
face.  "  Do  you  mean  that  my  wife  has  condescended  to  be  an 
artist's  model— that— Joan — "  but  Launcelot  would  not  let  him  finish; 
he  took  his  arm  with  a  grave  pitying  look  and  led  him  away. 

"  Don't,  Thorpe;  it  is  desecration  even  to  hint  at  such  things  before 
that  picture.  I  should  have  thought  that  that  face  would  have  rebuked 
even  an  unworthy  thought;  but  you  are  excited  and  unlike  yourself. 
Bit  down;  before  I  can  explain  matters,  1  must  ask  you  a  question. 
Where  do  you  believe  your  wife  to  be  at  the  present  moment?" 

"  At  Malvern." 

"  Indeed?    Can  you  vouch  for  that  fact?" 

"  She's  living  by  her  own  wish  as  companion  to  an  invalid  lady,  Mrs. 
Weston  of  Roseneath. ' ' 

"  Mrs.  Weston  is  dead;  has  been  dead  for  more  than  a  year.  SI  it- 
died  soon  after  Mrs.  Templeton." 

"  Impossible!  You  are  laboring  under  some  mistake.  My  sister 
would  have  been  the  first  person  to  be  acquainted  with  Mrs.  Western's 
death;  she  was  in  constant  correspondence  with  Joan." 

"  We  must  leave  that  for  the  present.  I  dare  not  enter  into  that  part 
of  the  subject  now.  I  want  to  convince  you  of  the  fact  that  for  the  last, 
year  you  have  known  nothing  of  your  wrife's  movements — that  1  am 
better  informed  with  them  than  yourself." 

"  'What  on  earth  are  you  driving  at,  Chudleigh?  Speak  out,  man,  it' 
you  have  anything  to  tell  me!" 

'  I  have  much  to  tell  you.  In  the  first  place,  Mrs.  Thorpe  is  under 
this  roof." 

'  Good  heavens!" 

'  She  h;i>  been  living  under  this  roof  for  the  last  year." 
'  Chudleigh,  one  or  other  of  us  must  be  mad!    God  give  me  patience 
to  sit  and  hear  you!" 

"  He  will,  Thorpe,  He  will,"  returned  Launcelot,  in  a  moved  voice, 
for  the  gray,  drawn  lines  round  Mr.  Thorpe's  mouth,  and  the  .sudden 
haggardness  of  his  look,  spoke  of  strongly  controlled  feeling.  "  AVill 
3rou  try  to  listen  to  me  without  interruption  while  I  tell  you  everything 
from  the  beginning?  Remember  il  is  painful  for  me  us  well  as  for  you, 
for  until  the  day  before  yesterday  I  had  no  idea  that  the  lady  living  in 
our  house  as  Sybil's  governess  was  Mrs.  Thorpe." 

"  What  did  she  call  herself?" 

Iter."     Then  Mr.  Thorpe  uttered  a  low  groan,  and  when 
Launcelot  looked  at  him  next  his  face  was  shielded  by  his  h;md. 
on;  1  will  not  interrupt  you,"  lie  said,  hoarsely. 

"It  was  rather  more  tha-  <>-  -1  was  at  the  Italian  I 

remember- when   I  received  a,  hiter  from  my  step-mother  tellii 
ehe  had  engaged  a  new  governess  I'm-  -Sybil.    Stay,  1  have  the  lettui 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS. 

here;  let  me  read  exactly  what  she  said:  '  You  will  be  glad  to  hear,  my 
Launce,  that  I  have  been  at  last  successful  and  have  secured  just 
the  jjerson  I  want  for  Sybil.  I  have  been  several  times  to  Harley  Street, 
but  without  any  result,  until  I  saw  Miss  Rossiter.  She  is  an  extremely 
engaging  3rouug  person,  very  pleasant  in  manner,  and  seems  full  of  life 
and  vivacity.  She  has  a  lovely  voice  and  plays  exceedingly  well,  and 
seems  lady -like  as  well  as  accomplished.  Bee  was  charmed  with  her, 
and  I  must  confess  I  liked  her  at  once,  she  looked  so  frank  and  good- 
humored.  She  told  me  at  once  that  she  had  never  had  any  pupils,  as 
her  only  situation  hud  been  with  an  invalid  lady  with  whom  she  lived 
as  companion,  but  as  this  Mrs.  Weston  was  dead,  and  she  had  recently 
lost  her  aunt  who  had  brought  her  up,  she  wished  to  try  her  hand  at 
teaching,  as  she  was  fond  of  children.  There  was  a  little  difficulty 
about  references,  owing  to  Mrs.  Weston's  death,  but  I  wrote  to  Mrs. 
Maclean,  who  lives  near  Malvern,  and  begged  her  to  make  all  necessary 
inquiries.  I  think  she  saw  the  housekeeper,  I  am  not  sure,  but,  any- 
how, Mr.  Maclean  says  Mrs.  Weston  was  one  of  the  best-known  people 
in  Malvern,  and  though  she  always  thought  her  companion,  whom  she 
had  met  once  or  twice,  was  a  young  married  lady  separated  from  her 
husband,  she  supposed  she  was  mixing  her  up  in  her  mind  with  a  pre- 
vious companion,  but  she  was  a  very  lady-like  person.  I  am  afraid  you 
will  be  vexed  with  me,  Launce  for  acting  so  Impulsively,  but  when  I 
saw  Miss  Rossiter  again  1  engaged  her,  and  she  is  coming  to  us  next 
week.' 

"  She  came,"  went  on  Launcelot,  putting  the  envelope  in  his  pocket 
again,  "and  every  letter  I  received  contained  glowing  accounts  of  the 
governess.  Pauline  had  struck  up  a  frien<lship  with  her,  and 
Sybil  was  a  different  child  under  her  wise  management.  When  I  re- 
turned home,  and  saw  Miss  Rossiter,  I  confess  that  I  blamed  my  step- 
mother for  indiscretion  and  want  of  worldly  wisdom.  I  considered 
Miss  Rossiter  far  too  handsome  for  her  position.  I  thought  her  singu- 
larly fascinating,  and  feared  that  my  brothers  would  think  so  too,  but 
my  disapproval  made  very  little  impression  on  my  step-mother;  both 
she  and  the  girls  were  infatuated  with  Miss  Rossiter.  After  a  time  I 
began  to  disapprove  less  myself.  In  spite  of  her  frankness  and  vivacity, 
I  soon  saw  that  Miss  Rossiter  appeared  perfectly  unconscious  of  the  fact 
that  she  was  a  young  and  lovely  woman.  She  neither  seemed  to  expect 
nor  demand  admiration.  She  gave  men  no  encouragement  to  approach 
her,  and  I  do  not  believe  the  boldest  of  them  ever  ventured  to  address  a 
compliment  to  her.  It  was  this  propriety  of  behavior  that  gave  my 
step- mother  such  perfect  confidence  in  her.  I  remember  she  once  told 
vne  that  Miss  Rossiter  was  as  dignified  as  though  she  were  a  married 
woman." 

There  was  a  pause  here,  as  though  Launcelot  lipped  for  some  inter- 
ruption, but  none  came.  Mr.  Thorpe's  face  was  still  shielded  from  the 
light;  he  did  not  move  or  change  his  attitude.  Lauucelot  turned  a 
shade  paler,  his  manner  became  agitated  and  irresolute — he  had  come 
to  a  part  of  his  story  where  he  was  in  danger  of  breaking  down. 

"  Thorpe  " — he  began,  and  then  stopped,  "  you  have  a  right  to  know 
it  shall  be  told,  if  you  wish  it,  thougli  at  the  expense  of  such  pain  as 
even  you  can  not  guess."  Then  the  other  man  slowly  raised  his  head 
and  looked  at  him;  those  cold,  steady  eyes  seemed  to  read  Launcelot 
through  and  through. 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  you  need  *£ll  me  nothing,  Chudleigh.    I  can  under 


178  ONLY    THE    GOYERNES8. 

stand  for  myself.    Whatever  happened,  you  were  not  to  blamt.     I  can 
trust  the  man  who  once  stood  between  me  and  death." 

"  Thank  you,"  was  all  that  Launcclot  could  say,  but  ho  walked  away 
to  the  window  to  recover  himself.     He  stood  for  a  moment  cm 
down  the  pain  that  seemed  to  suffocate  him,  while  the  dewy 
of  the  evening  air  fanned  his  hot  temples  refreshingly.     If  he  had 
there  a  moment  longer  he  would  have  seen  the  gleam  of  a  white 
moving  between  the  dark  shrubs.     As  he  turned  away  a  tall,  shadowy 
figure  moved  nearer  to  the  window,  as  though  drawn  by  some  irn 
ble  magnet,  and  a  sweet  frightened  face  in  its  black  lace  hood  L 
softly  against  the  frame- work.     "  If  I  can  only  see  him  without  l 
"  thought  Joan,  her  heart  palpitating  at  her  own  daring,  ana 
Launcelot's  voice  reached  her  ear  and  held  her  spell-bound. 

"  You  must  not  blame  her  either.    If  you  are  her  husband,  you  must 
know  how  good  she  really  is.     At  my  first  indiscreet  word  she  told  me 
the  whole  truth — that  I  must  never  speak  to  her  in  that  way  again,  that 
she  had  never  thought  of  such  a  thing  happening,  and  then  she  In- 
my  pardon,  poor  child,  and  seemed  almost  beside  herself  with  sliamo 
and  penitence.     '  I  am  the  wife  of  a  good  man,'  that  is  what  sin 
to  me." 

"  Did  she  give  you  any  reason  for  her  extraordinary  conduct  in  pass- 
ing herself  off  as  an  unmarried  woman?" 

"  Yes;  we  had  a  long  talk,  and  she  told  me  everything  as  she  has 
since  told  my  step-mother.  She  trusted  me  as  though  I  were  her 
brother;  she  owned  frankly  that  her  married  life  had  been  very  un- 
happy. She  had  the  impression  that  her  husband  had  never  loved  her: 
that  he  considered  her  presence  burdensome  to  him,  and  she  also  owned 
that  her  sister-in-law  had  made  her  existence  miserable." 

"  As  she  has  told  both  of  us  many  times." 

"  I  wish  you  could  have  heard  her  every  word;  I  think  in  that  case 
your  anger  will  be  less  intense.  I  am  not  defending  her  course  of  de- 
ception— I  am  the  last  person  to  do  so — but  I  assure  you,  Thorpe,  that 
though  she  has  treated  you  as  few  men  have  been  treated,  sin 
more  on  a  childish  impulse  to  free  herself  from  all  trammels  than  from 
any  deliberate  intention  to  do  wrong." 

"  You  can  say  this  to  my  face?" 

"  Indeed  I  can.  Of  all  girls  she  has  been  most  ignorant  and  willful, 
but  few  women  have  repented  as  she  will  repent.  She  is  utterly  crushed 
beneath  her  own  self-condemnation;  '  Indeed,  I  never  meant  to  be 
wicked,'  that  was  the  whole  burden  of  her  cry." 

"  She  has  duped  you,  Chudleigh!  You  actually  speak  as  though  you 
think  Joan  more  sinned  against  than  sinning!" 

"  Will  you  bear  with  me  if  I  say_  that  I  do  think  so?— that  I  think  this 
poor  girl'— for  she  is  only  a  girl  in  years — has  met  with  scant  tender- 
ness?    Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  do  not  think  your  si>ter  has 
been  hard  on  her?  that  she  has  not  exaggerated   her  faults  insir 
trying  to  hide  them  from  her  husband's  eyes?     You  have  talked  to  mo 
yourself,  Thorpe;  you  have  owned  that  you  knew  her  to  be  an  in 
plined,  ignorant  child  when  you  married  her,  and  yet  you  could  leave 
her  to  be  tutored  and  lectured  by  your  sister!     Would  any  proud-spirit- 
ed woman  submit  to  such  treatment?    Would  any  uncontrolled  temper 
brook  it  for  a  moment?" 

"Did  Joan  tell  you  that  she  made  her  husband's  life  so  intolerable 
that  he  could  have  prayed  for  death  to  free  him?" 

"  Ye§,  she  told  me  that,  and  tke  lamented  that  all  her  efforts  to  do 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  1?9 

better  were  misrepresented  and  misunderstood.  She  felt  as  though  her 
heart  were  slowly  breaking,  as  though  she  must  die  or  go  mad,  and  the* 
it  was  you  gave  her  her  freedom." 

"  I  always  meant  her  to  come  back." 

"She  did  not  think  so.  The  idea  had  grown  upon  her  that  your 
love  was  a  thing  of  the  past,  that  you  were  thankful  to  let  her  go;  and 
then  it  was  that  the  temptation  to  set  herself  really  free  came  into  her 
mind,  and  she  took  off  her  wedding-ring  and  called  herself  Miss  Ros- 
siter." 

"  Oh,  she  spoke  the  truth  when  she  told  me  that  she  would  soon 
come  to  hate  me!  This  last  insult  has  proved  it  to  me." 

"  She  does  not  hate  you,  Thorpe,  but  she  fears  you  as  no  woman 
ought  to  fear  her  husband.  She  speaks  of  you  with  respect.  I  am  not 
sure  that  there  is  not  a  deeper  feeling  at  tne  bottom — all  her  bitterness, 
all  her  hard  sayings,  are  against  your  sister." 

"  And  yet  Rachel  was  good  to  her." 

"  I  do  not  think  Mrs.  Thorpe  would  indorse  that  opinion.  She  looked 
upon  her  as  a  hard  kecpar,  as  one  who  sowed  dissension  between  her 
and  her  husband.  I  am  your  sister's  friend  as  well  as  yours,  Thorpe, 
and  yet  I  dare  to  tell  her  to  her  face  that  she  was  wrong  in  remaining 
under  your  roof." 

"  One  moment,  Chudleigh— we  are  talking  about  Rachel— how  is  it 
that  she  remained  in  ignorance  ol  Mrs.  Weston's  death?"  Then,  as 
Launcelot  quietly  explained  the  matter,  toning  it  down  as  well  as  the 
truth  permitted,  Mr.  Thorpe's  face  grew  grayer  and  more  haggard. 
"  Do  you  mean  that  Rachel  has  deceived  me?  Oh,  I  know  what  you 
mean  "—as  Launcelot  was  about  to  interrupt  him — "  that  she  meant  it 
for  my  good,  but  that  is  all  nothing  to  me.  I  could  sooner  believe  that 
the  sun  would  not  rise  again  to-morrow  than  that  Rachel  could  de- 
ceive me!" 

"  My  dear  friend,  we  are  none  of  us  infallible.  God  forbid  thai  we 
should  cast  stones  at  one  another;"  but  Mr.  Thorpe  did  not  seem  to 
hear  him. 

"  I  was  lonely  enough  when  Joan  left  me;  but  at  least  I  had  my  sis- 
ter. What  was  my  loneliness  then  compared  to  my  solitude  now?" 

The  words  seemed  forced  out  of  his  lips,  as  though  in  spite  of  his 
proud  reticence  his  pain  must  find  vent.  Perhaps  the  grave  sympathy 
of  the  man  who  had  been  like  a  brother  to  him  moved  him  to  speech. 

"  Perhaps  you  were  right  in  much  that  you  have  said,"  he  went  on. 
"I  will  take  my  share  of  blame.  I  was  often  hard  on  Joan.  I  did  not 
make  allowances  for  her  youth  and  imperfect  education,  but  if  I 
wronged  her  I  have  been  sorely  punished,  and  what  has  my  sin  been 
compared  to  hers?" 

"  Thorpe,  what  made  you  marry  her?" 

"  Because,  like  a  fool,  I  fell  in  love  with  her.  Ah,  I  grant  you  she 
never  knew  the  extent  of  her  power.  I  was  a  shy,  diffident  lover:  it 
was  difficult  for  me  to  give  expression  to  my  feelings.  She  often  re- 
pulsed me  and  threw  me  back,  but,  as  her  husband,  I  worshiped  her, 
and  in  spite  of  the  blackness  of  her  sin  against  me  the  misery  is — I  love 
her  still." 

A  faint  tremulous  sigh  answered  these  words,  but  neither  of  the  men 
heard  it. 

"  She  has  complained  to  you  of  my  coldness,  but  if  she  could  only 
have  read  my  thoughts!  How  I  watched  for  one  kind  look  or  word  to 
tell  me  that  my  wife  wra  ^~*  wholly  indiHere»t  to  me!  But  she  onty 


180  ONLY    TTTE 

took  pains  to  show  me  that  she  hated  mo.  She  made  my  very  love  for 
her  the  means  of  torturing  m;-.  She  would  provoke  me  into  saving 
filter  tiling,  and  then  r;:mk  nt  me  for  my  coldness  and  cruelty.  Chmi- 
leigh,  it  was  hell  on  earth  1  I  sometimes  wonder  howl  lived  through  it." 

'•  L  can  iimic'M'ind  how  had  tilings  were." 


"  It  was  simply  a  maddening  life  for  a  man  to  lead.  And  yd  a  very 
little  would  have'  satisfied  me.  1  did  not  ask  a  greater  sacrifice  from 
.loan  than  many  a  one  has  had  to  ask  from  his  wife.  '  I  have  a 
living  with  me  to  whom  1  owe  every  thing;  she  is  dependent  on  me,  and 
I  am'not  a  rich  man,  and  can  not  afford  another  establishment.  Do  you 
think  you  can  live  happily  together  as  sisters  for  my  sake?'  that  is 
what  1  said  to  Joan  before  I  married  her,  and  her  answer  was  frank  and 
simple:  '  T  have  never  had  a  sister,  and  I  think  it  will  he  nice  to  have 
Rachel  with  us,  for  she  will  teach  me  all  your  ways;'  and  yet  before 
six  months  were  over  she  was  telling  me  that  either  Rachel  or  she 
must  go." 

"  It  was  a  difficult  position,  as  you  say.'* 

"  I  held  firm,  and  I  do  not  think  even  now  I  was  wrong.  I  said  that 
my  sister  should  never  leave  my  roof  unless  by  her  own  free  will  —  and 
you  know  the  rest;  there  is  nothing  more  to  be  said." 

"  Only  one  word,  Thorpe.  Your  wife  must  come  back  to  you  at 
once.  Remember,  you  are  responsible  before  God  for  that  poor  girl  !  '  ' 
but  a  flash  of  the  gray  eyes  warned  Launcelot  that  he  was  treading  on 
dangerous  ground. 

"I  would  have  suffered  no  other  man  to  say  the  things  to  me  that 
you  have  said  to-night,  but  even  you  can  go  too  far.  No  one  shall  in- 
terfere between  my  wife  and  me.  Rachel  will  have  to  answer  to  me 
for  what  she  has  done.  It  is  for  Joan  to  ask  my  forgiveness;  I  will 
listen  to  no  other  pleading— 

"  But  if  I  do  beg  your  forgiveness,  Ivan,  if  I  say  that  I  am  really  and 
truly  sorry  —  "  and  Joan  stood  before  them,  still  in  her  little  black  laee 
hood,  looking  at  them  piteously,  with  the  tears  rolling  down  her  pale 
cheeks.  "  Oh,  please  do  not  be  angry  with  me  because  I  stopped  and 
listened!"  and  she  clasped  her  hands  and  looked  at  her  husband.  But 
he  stood  with  averted  eyes  as  though  suddenly  turned  to  stone;  only 
Launcelot  heard  his  labored  breathing,  and  gave  him  an  anxious  glance, 
as  lie  prepared  to  leave  the  room,  but  a  sharp  voice  recalled  him. 

"  Where  are  you  going,  Clmdleigh?  If  you  have  ever  been  my 
friend  act  as  one  now,  and  do  not  leave  me.  Tell  my  wife  that  I  can 
not—  that  I  will  not—  speak  to  her  to-night."  • 

"Mrs.  Thorpe,  you  hear  what  he  says;  will  you  be  good  enough  to 
leave  us?  I  think  your  husband  is  ill." 

"  Do  you  really  wish  me  to  go,  Ivan?" 

"  Yes."    But  she  still  lingered. 

"  You  will  not  even  look  at  me?" 

*'  Xo,"  moving  his  dry  lips  with  difficulty,  "  I  will  neither  speak  to 
you  nor  look  at  you  to-night.  If  you  are  really  sorry,  you  will  obey 
me  once  as  your  husband.  To-morrow  I  will  hear  you,  not  now." 

"  Very  well,"  she  returned,  humbly,  "  but  to-morrow  will  not  be  to- 

night.   You  are  making  a  mistake,  Ivan,  hut  you  shall  be  obeyed,'-  ai><! 

Burned  away,  bending  her  head  gravely  as  Launceloi  opened  the 

Afadella,'    he  whispered,  "and  I  will  look  after  him," 

be  did  not  answer;  only  as  she  looked  at  him  there  w;is  a  CU1 

'imnphat  :i  in  her  large  soft  eyes,  and  she  looked 

1  than  Hshimied  of  her  in  ipulsive  action. 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  181 

But  Launcelot  had  no  time  to  question  the  meaning  of  Joan's  look. 
He  poured  out  some  water  and  brought  it  to  his  friend,  who  took  the 
glass  with  a  shaking  hand. 

"It  was  only  giddiness:  it  has  passed;  but  I  think  it  would  have 
killed  me  to  speak  to  her.  "I  must  think  over  things  quietly,  and  see 
what  is  to  be  done.  I  will  do  nothing,  promise  nothing,  to-night." 

"  You  will  let  me  see  you  home?" 

"  Pooh,  nonsense!  I  am  not  ill;  the  walk  back  in  the  cool  air  will  do 
me  good — no,  no  more  talk  to-nidit,  Chudleigh — " 

"Well!" 

"  You  heard  her  ask  me  to  look  at  her?" 

"Yes." 

"  I  did  not  dare  to  raise  my  eyes;  the  very  sound  of  her  voice  was 
enough  for  me.  If  I  had  looked  I  must  have  opened  my  arms  to  her, 
hearing  her  speak  in  that  way." 

"  Why  do  you  tell  me  this  now,  unless  you  mean  me  to  call  her  back 
— may  I,  Thorpe?" 

"  No! — a  thousand  times  no!  I  am  glorying  in  my  own  prudence; 
she  shall  not  force  forgiveness  out  of  me  like  that.  She  must  earn  it 
first,  and  humble  herself  before  me." 

"  I  think  the  other  way  would  have  been  more  generous." 

"  But  I  am  not  a  generous  man,  and  I  will  not  consent  to  any  hollow 
truce.  She  must  convince  me  of  her  penitence,  she  must  give  me  some 
proof  that  will  satisfy  me,  or  there  will  be  no  reconciliation." 

"Oh,  go  your  own  way,"  returned  Launcelot,  half  angrily,  half 
sadly.  He  knew  that  he  could  not  alter  the  man's  nature.  One  word, 
one  look,  and  the  erring  wife  would  have  been  at  his  feet,  and  all  the 
miserable  past  would  have  been  wiped  out. 

"  Oh,  good  Lord,  how  do  we  even  venture  to  take  those  words  upon 
our  lips?"  he  thought;  "  is  there  one  of  us  who  knows  how  to  forgive 
a  brother's  trespass?"  and  his  noble  heart  grew  sick  within  him,  for 
Joan  had  said  to-morrow  would  not  be  to-day,  and  her  unquiet,  restless 
soul  might  have  set  itself  in  bitterness  before  the  husband  and  wife  met 
again. 

"  Yes,  and  my  way  will  not  please  you,"  returned  Mr.  Thorpe.  "  We 
are  different  men,  and  the  same  course  of  action  would  not  be  possible 
to  us,  but  I  mean  to  do  my  best  for  Joan."  Then  he  said  good-night, 
and  went  out  into  the  summer  night,  but  as  he  walked  across  the  dark 
common  and  down  the  long  hill,  a  sweet  voice  broken  with  sobs  seemed 
to  ring  in  his  ears.  "  But  if  I  beg  your  forgiveness,  Ivan,  if  I  say  that 
I  am  really  and  truly  sorry  "—during  all  their  unhappy  married  life 
had  he  ever  heard  her  speak  in  that  voice  before? 

But  Launcelot's  face  had  a  cloud  on  it  as  he  re-entered  the  studio, 
and  stood  for  a  moment  before  his  picture,  as  though  unwilling  to 
cover  it  up. 

"  It  is  not  finished,  but  I  shall  never  touch  it  again,"  he  said  to  him- 
self. "  It  is  my  best  picture.  If  I  live  for  fifty  years,  I  shall  not  paint 
another  as  good.  To-morrow  I  shall  send  it  to  him;  it  is  his  by  right." 

And  then  as  he  looked  at  the  green  meads  where  mellich  groweth, 
which  he  had  painted  with  such  delight,  and  at  the  frightened  cattle 
huddled  up  into  a  heap,  as  the  big  advancing  wave  flowed  over  the 
reedy  Lindis's  shore,  and  then  at  the  pale  face  and  strained  eyes  of  the 
sweet-faced  mother  as  she  pressed  her  babes  to  her  bosom,  a  sudden  sob 
in  his  throat  seemed  to  choke  him,  and  he  sat  down  and  covered  his 


182  ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS. 

face  with  his  hands,  and  the  echo  of  mouruf ul  thoughts  woke  the  old 
refrain  again : 

u  That  flow  strewed  wrecks  about  the  grass, 

That  ebbe  swept  out  the  flocks  to  sea, 
A  fatal  ebbe  and  tlo\v,  alas! 

To  manye  inoiv  than  inyne  and  mee: 
But  each  will  mourn  his  own  (she  saith) 
And  sweeter  woman  ne'er  drew  breath 
Than  my  sonne's  wife  Elizabeth." 

"  '  A  fatal  ebbe  and  flow,'  indeed,"  he  thought,  when  at  last  he  ex 
Unguished  the  lights  and  crept  wearily  to  his  bed. 


CHAITER  XXVIII. 

"JOAN,     COME     BACK." 

The  time  once  was  when  I  might  have  learned  to  love  that  man.— Bob  Roy. 
Cool  as  an  icicle  and  determined  as  the  rock  it  hangs  upon.— Anne  of  Gcierstein. 

JOAN  would  have  hesitated  in  complying  with  Launcclot's  injunction, 
but  at  that  moment  Mrs.  Chudleigh,  thinking  she  heard  voices,  opened 
the  drawing-room  door.  Her  surprise  amounted  to  consternation  when 
she  perceived  the  girl  standing  in  the  glass  corridor  that  led  out  of  the 
studio. 

"  My  dear,  will  you  come  in  here  for  a  moment?  I  must  speak  to 
you.  Surely  that  was  not  my  son's  voice  that  I  heard  just  now?" 

"  Indeed  it  was,  Mrs.  Chudleigh.  He  was  bidding  nie  come  to  you;" 
and  then  she  said,  in  a  queer  choked  voice,  "  I  have  been  in  the  studio, 
I  have  seen  Ivan,  but  he  would  not  let  me  stay.  I  could  not  get  him 
to  look  at  me  or  speak  to  me,  and  so  I  came  away. " 

"  Joan,  I  can  not  believe  my  ears.  Surely — but  no — it  is  impossible 
— you  could  not  have  entered  your  husband's  presence  unless  lie  sent 
for  you!" 

"  There,  I  have  shocked  you  again,  and  when  I  looked  at  Mr.  Chiul- 
leigh  I  could  see  he  was  shocked  too.  Why  is  it  I  must  always  do  the 
wrong  thing,  that  I  never  have  strength  to  resist  the  moment's  impulse? 
I  think  I  am  the  worst  girl  that  ever  lived— and  yet  I  meant  no  harm," 
and  here  one  or  two  tears  fell  which  made  Mrs.  Chudleigh  relax  from 
her  unwonted  dignity. 

"  I  never  meant  to  scold  you,  Joan,  but  I  am  afraid  you  have  been 
extremely  injudicious.  Will  you  tell  me  what  you  were  doing  clown- 
•tairs  at  so  late  an  hour?" 

"  Oli,  yes,  I  will  tell  you  everything.  I  could  not  stop  in  the  school- 
room quietly;  the  thought  that  Ivan  was  in  the  house,  that  he  and  Mr. 
Chudleigh  were  talking  about  me,  made  me  so  restless  that  I  could  not 
settle  to  any  employment.  I  felt  a  longing  to  be  out  in  the  air,  move- 
ment of  some  kind  seemed  absolutely  necessary  to  me,  so  1  went  into 
the  garden.  But  even  when  I  was  there  I  could  not  keep  away  from 
the  house,  and  the  lighted  window  of  the  studio  seemed  Jo  draw 
a  moth  is  drawn  toward  the  tlame  of  a  candle.  I  felt  a  strange  desire  to 
see  Ivan  without  his  perceiving  me  in  return,  but  when  I  can 

window,  I  could  hear  Mr.  Chudleigh  speaking,  and  what  h' 
w;t-  so  to  autiful  that  I  could  not  help  listening,  and  Ivan  answered  him, 
and  I  .stayed." 

"  ,My  dear  did  not  your  conscience  tell  you  that  it  was  very  dishoy/ 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  183 

oraMc  to  steal  yonr  husband's  confidence  in  that  way?  His  words  were 
not  meant  to  reach  your  ears." 

"  I  never  thought  of  that — I  never  /3o  think,  you  know.  Of  course 
it  was  wrong,  but  all  the  same  I  am  thankful  I  did  it.  What  do  you 
think,  Mrs.  Chudleigh?" — and  a  proud  light  came  into  her  eyes—"  1 
hoard  Ivan  say — yes,  they  were  his  very  words — that  he  had  always 
'  loved  me,'  and  that  he  '  loved  me  still.'  ' 

"  You  did  not  deserve  such  a  consolation." 

"  Ah,  but  you  see  he  said  it,  and  Ivan  never  says  what  he  does  not 
mean.  lie  never  meant  me  to  know  it,  he  thinks  I  have  forfeited  all 
right  to  his  affections,  but  there  it  is;  he  can  not  help  himself,  and  I 
know  now  that  all  his  coldness  was  assumed  to  punish  me." 

"  1  am  afraid  all  this  will  only  add  to  Mr.  Thorpe's  displeasure. 
Men  are  very  sensitive  on  these  points  of  honor." 

"  Yes,  1  know  that,  and  that  is  why  I  owned  myself  in  the  wrong.  I 
wished  Ivan  to  know  what  I  had  done.  I  went  into  the  studio  and  begged 
for  his  forgiveness.  I  did  not  mind  Mr.  Chudleigh  being  there — I  never 
thought  of  him— I  only  wanted  Ivan  to  look  at  me  and  sec  how  sorry  I 
was,  but  he  would  not  speak  to  me,  and  then  Mr.  Chudleigh  said  my 
husband  was  ill  and  I  must  come  away." 

"  Was  lie  ill V" 

"  He  looked  very  pale,  old,  and  gray;  I  think  I  startled  him.  "When 
he  told  me  to  go,  of  course  I  obeyed  him.  I  made  up  my  mind  as  I 
listened  to  him  outside  the  window  that  he  should  never  have  reason  to 
complain  of  my  disobedience  again." 

"  Hut  surely  he  will  not  refuse  to  see  you?" 

"  No,  he  is  coming  to-morrow;  that  is'  his  way,  never  to  do  anything 
without  due  consideration.  He  would  not  let  me  take  him  by  storm, 
though  one  relenting  word  would  have  earned  my  life's  gratitude.  He 
will  go  home  and  think  about  it  all,  and  when'  he  has  measured  the 
depths  of  my  iniquities,  he  will  decide  on  the  duration  and  severity  of 
my  punishment.  If  he  forgives  at  all,  it  will  not  be  yet.  When  we 
meet  to-morrow  I  shall  waste  no  entreaties  on  him;  he  will  have  armed 
himself  against  me  beforehand.  That  is  why  I  said  to-morrow  was  not 
to-day." 

"  My  dear,  if  this  is  the  spirit  in  which  you  intend  to  meet  him,  I  can 
hardly  believe  that  any  reconciliation  will  be  possible.  Surely  you  will 
confess  that  you  have  done  wrong?" 

"  Oh,  yes;  I  will  do  as  much  as  that,  and  if  he  will  give  me  the  op- 
portunity I  will  own  that  I  am  sorry.  I  will  even  tell  him  that  for  the 
future  I  will  obey  him." 

"  Are  you  sure  that  your  purpose  will  hold  good,  Joan,  that  you  will 
really  submit  yourself  to  him?" 

"  Yes,  I  have  promised  you  and  Mr.  Chudleigh  to  be  good,  and  I  will 
not  go  back  from  my  promise.  I  dare  say  Ivan  will  make  my  life 
wretched.  When  I  think  of  his  power  over  me  I  am  horribly  fright- 
ened. Why  do  girls  marry,  I  wonder?  But  all  the  same,  I  mean  to 
obey  him. ' ' 

*'  1  am  glad  lo  hear  you  say  this;  my  son  will  be  glad  too.  But, 
Joan,  I  must  say  one  thing  to  you;  I  believe  you  have  been  decehjng 
yourself — in  your  heart  you  are  really  fond  of  your  husband." 

A  burning  flush  crossed  the  girl's  face  as  Mrs.  Chudleigh  spoke,  her 
head  drooped  suddenly  as  though  she  had  been  convicted  of  some  fault. 

"  There  was  a  time  when  I  could  have  loved  him,"  she  returned, 
tremulously,  "but  that  time  has  long  passed.  There  have  been  mo- 


184  ONLY    Tin:  i:ss. 

ments  when  I  almost  hated  liini.    People  tit)  not  feel  like  that  when  tLe*f 
art  fond  of  a  person." 

"I  don't  know,"  observed  Mrs.  Chudleigh,  doubtfully.  She  liad  a 
dim  notion  that  theif  \\as  something  defective  in  Joan's  :  only 

her  own  experience  and  knowledge   of  liunian  natui-i  ,  deep 

enough  to  rerify  her  instinctive  feeling  that  .loan  w»s  not  perfectly  in- 
different to  her  husband,  and  when  she  spoke  to  Launcelot  tin 
day,  he  indorsed  her  opinion. 

"  Yes,  she  cares  for  him;  I  expect  she  has  always  cared.     It  is  that 
that  has  made  her  so  unconscious  of  other  men's  admiration,  but  she 
never  believed  until  last  evening  in  his  affection  for  her.     Probai 
coldness  has  goaded  her   to  desperation;    then  his  despotic  will   li.i.s 
fretted  her  beyond  endurance,  but  lie  sees  his  mistake  now." 

"  And  he  is  coming  this  afternoon?" 

"  Yes,  he  will  be  here  about  six.  The  girls  are  not  coming  baek  until 
late,  so  they  will  not  be  interrupted.  If  I  were  you  I  should  tell  'Fen- 
wick  to  show  him  into  the  morning-room,  and  then  you  can  send  her 
to  him." 

"  I  hope  her  courage  will  not  fail  at  the  last  moment," 

"  Oh,  no,  there  is  no  fear  of  that;  she  is  no  coward.  The  only  fear 
is  that  the  interview  may  be  productive  of  no  good  at  all.  Still,  it  is 
no  use  troubling  ourselves  beforehand.  Yrou  and  I  have  done  our  parts, 
and  now  we  must  leave  it  in  other  hands. ' '  And  so  saying  he  went 
away,  as  though  to  put  a  stop  to  the  conversation. 

Joan  took  her  usual- place  at  the  luncheon-table  and  made  a  brave 
effort  to  appear  at  her  ease,  but,  though  the  children  talked,  ther 
very  little  said  by  their  elders.  Only  when  Sybil  begged  her  governess 
to  take  them  into  the  town  to  buy  something  for  Frecklcs's  birthday, 
her  mother  interposed  and  suggested  that  Emma  should  accompany 
them  instead. 

"  You  will  come  into  the  drawing-room  and  keep  me  company,  my 
dear,  will  you  not?"  she  observed  very  kindly  to  Joan,  for  she  was  un- 
willing to  trust  the  girl  out  of  her  sight,  and  Joan  followed  her  re- 
luctantly. 

But  there  was  not  much  conversation  between  them  as  they  sat  busy- 
ing themselves  over  their  work.  Joan  was  rather  silent  and  unap- 
proachable; she  answered  Mrs.  Chudleigh's  gentle  remarks  by  mono- 
syllabic replies,  and  Mrs.  Chudleigh  had  sufficient  tact  to  leave  her  to 
herself. 

But  she  puzzled  herself  once  not  a  little  over  the  girl's  changed 
ner  and  appearance;  she  had  never  seen  her  look  as  she  did  to-day. 
Joan  had  never  worn  black  before,  but  this  afternoon  she  had  pu: 
black  gown  of  some  soft,  silky  material,  and  the  narrow  muslin  edging 
round  her  throat  made  her  look  almost  quaint  in  her  simplicity. 

There  was  little  doubt  that  the  effect  was  studied,  and  that  she  wished 
to  appear  in  sober  garb  before  her  offended  husband,  but  no  coquettish 
arrangement  of  colors  could  have  suited  her  so  well.  I  test  less  nights 
and  days  of  weeping  had  not  clouded  the  pure  transparency  of  her  com- 
plexion, and  in  spite  of  her  paleness  and  the  heavy  sadness  in  her 
Mr-.  Chudleigh  thought  that  Joan  had  never  looked  more  lovely.  They 
sat  in  silent  companionship  through  the  greater  part  of  the  afternoon, 
and  then  Joan  suddenly  put  her  hand  to  her  throat  and  started  up. 

"  1  can  not  sit  any  longer— 1  can  not!  Will  you  let  me  go  out  a  littly 
— just  to  the  terract  and  back?  1  will  not  go  out  of  your  sight,  if  you 
prefer  it." 


ONLY    THE    GOTERKESS.  St 

"  My  dear,  you  speak  as  though  you  were  a  prisoner.  Go  out  by  all 
means;  the  air  will  do  you  good." 

"  Thank  you.  I  do  not  want  to  be  impatient,  b»t  the  thought  of 
what  is  coming  seems  to  put  my  nerves  on  edge.  Ivan  will  be  terrible! 
—terrible!  When  I  think  of  it  I  want  to  run  away  and  hide  myself. 
It  is  a  sad  thing  when  a  woman  fears  her  husband  as  [  fear  Ivan.  I 
wisii  he  could  kill  me  outright  instead  of  putting  me  to  the  slow 
torture!" 

"  My  dear — my  dear!" 

"  Oh,  I  do  not  really  mean  what  I  say,  only  I  have  worked  myself  up 
to  such  a  pitch  of  nervousness.  Please  don't  trouble  about  me;  when 
the  time  comes  I  shall  have  courage  to  go  to  him." 

And  with  a  little  laugh  she  opened  the  glass  door  and  stepped  out  on 
the  gravel  walk. 

"  Poor  child!  I  verily  believe  there  is  quicksilver  about  her.  I  never 
saw  a  more  excitable  temperament.  She  tries  to  control  herself,  but 
she  has  never  learned  the  lesson  of  self-government,  and  one  can  do 
nothing  to  help  her." 

Poor  Mrs.  Chudleigh  was  not  spending  a  very  pleasant  afternoon;  it 
was  almost  a  relief  when  Fenwick  at  last  announced  that  Mr.  Thorpe 
was  in  the  morning- room,  and  would  like  to  speak  to  his  wife. 

She  went  through  the  shrubberies  herself  to  fetch  the  girl,  and  sent 
Fenwick  about  his  business. 

Joan  caught  sight  of  her  at  once,  and  hastened  to  meet  her. 

"  You  have  come  to  fetch  me  yourself!  How  very  kind!  Is  my 
husband  here?  Oh,  I  am  quite  ready  for  him— I  will  go  to  him  at 
once." 

But  as  she  would  have  passed  her,  Mrs.  Chudleighi  detained  her 
gently. 

"  Be  very  humble,  Joan.  Do  not  forget  for  a  moment  that  he  is 
your  husband,  and  that  he  has  the  right  to  find  fault  with  you,"  and 
then  she  let  her  go. 

Joan  walked  straight  into  the  morning-room,  with  set,  pale  lips,  and 
her  head  rather  higher  than  usual.  She  bowed  gravely  to  her  husband 
as  he  rose  and  put  a  chair  for  her;  then  motioning  it  aside,  walked 
quickly  to  the  window,  and  stood  there  with  her  face  averted  and  her 
long  neck  turned  from  him,  and  after  a  moment's  hesitation  he  followed 
her. 

It  seemed  as  though  speech  were  not  possible  to  either  of  them.  Joan 
seemed  to  hear  only  the  agitated  beating  of  her  own  heart,  while  Mr. 
Thorpe  was  only  conscious  that  he  and  Joan  were  once  more  together — 
that  at  any  moment  he  might  hear  her  voice — that  he  could  even  put 
out  his  hand  and  touch  her  if  he  liked. 

"  You  sent  for  me,  Ivan?" 

If  at  that  moment  Joan  had  realized  her  power  and  used  it,  she  would 
not  have  begged  for  forgiveness  in  vain,  when  her  husband's  heart  was 
aching  with  repressed  love,  and  longing  for  the  beautiful,  willful  creat- 
ure who  had  spoiled  his  life;  but  Joan,  in  her  shy  pride,  did  not  look  at 
him,  and  so  the  opportunity  was  lost. 

"  You  sent  for  me,  Ivan,  and  I  am  here,"  she  repeated,  in  a  voic« 
that  chilled  him. 

This  was  not  the  way  she  had  addressed  him  last  night,  when  her 
voice  was  broken  with  sobs,  and  the  reality  of  her  sorrow  and  penitence 
had  been  evident  even  to  him.  If  only  she  had  stooped  again  to  entreat 


18  C  ONLY    1  F.RNESS. 

him.  and  lie  could  hare  seen  her  eyes  full  of  tears!  Imt  the  tide  of  her 
grief  had  turned,  and  had  left  her  dVy  and  hard. 

you  are  here,  and  now  how  am  I  to  find  words  in  which  to 

speak  to  you?  how  am  I  to  tell  you  what  you  do  not  know  already?     I 

always  knew  our  notions  of  honor  differed,  but  I  hardly  thought  that 

even  you  would  have  deigned  to  listen  to  words  that  you  knew  were 

•i leant  for  your 

This  unexpected  thrust  touched  her  too  keenly,  and  a  rush  of  angry 
color  answered  him. 

"  Ivan,  how  dare  you  insinuate  that  I  placed  myself  at  the  window 
with  the  expre  ••  of  listening  to  your  conversation  with  Mr. 

Chucllcigh! — ho\v  dare  you!"  And  then  she  stopped,  and  her  lips  trem- 
bled. "I  beg  your  pardon;  I  ought  not  to  have  spoken  in  that  tone. 
You  must  say  what  you  like  to  me,  and  I  must  bear  it." 

The  apology  disarmed  him. 

"  Can  you  justify  your  conduct,  Joan?" 

"  No,  she  returned,  wearily,  "I  can  justify  nothing.  Everything 
is  wrong,  and  the  only  pity  is  that  I  was  ever  born,  to  be  the  misery  of 
myself  and  other  people.  I  did  not  mean  to  listen,  only  I  heard  some- 
thing that  touched  me,  and  I  could  not  go  away,  and  I  stopped — and 
you  know  the  rest." 

"  Yes;  and  then  you  came  in  and  asked  me  to  forgive  you.  I  wonder 
you  had  the  courage.  Most  women  would  sooner  have  sunk  through 
the  floor  than  go  out  of  their  way  to  meet  the  husband  they  had  loaded 
with  insult.  Joan,  tell  me  one  thing.  Was  it  because  you  hated  me  so 
intensely  that  you  took  off  your  wedding-ring,  and  even  refused  to  bear 
my  name?" 

She  stooped  her  graceful  head  now,  as  though  she  would  willingly 
have  hidden  her  face  from  his  keen,  reproachful  look,  and  her  eyes 
were  fixed  on  the  carpet. 

"  I  did  not  hate  you,"  she  stammered,  "  but  I  was  unhappy,  and  I 
wanted  to  be  free." 

"  Why  did  you  not  ask  me  to  make  such  freedom  possible?  A  legal 
separation  would  have  given  you  a  fair  amount  of  liberty.  1  could  not 
cease  to  be  your  husband,  but  at  least  I  would  not  have  held  you  to 
your  bond  like  a  slave." 

The  intense  scorn  and  anger  in  his  tone  were  more  acceptable  to  Joan 
than  the  cutting  coldness  of  old. 

"  I  have  treated  you  very  badly,  Ivan." 

"  Badly!  I  do  not  think  any  husband  has  been  so  ill-used  before;  all 
the  world  will  know  that  you  left  my  protection  without  suflicicnt 
cause,  and  passed  yourself  off  as  an  unmarried  woman." 

1 '  Yes,  it  was  wrong,  but  if  you  only  knew  how  I  repent  my  sin !  I 
think  it  was  Rachel's  letter  that  made  me  so  desperate.  She  made  me 
feel  as  though  you  hated  me— as  though  you  would  be  glad  to  see  the 
last  of  me." 

"  Joan,  if  you  please,  we  will  keep  my  sister's  name  out  of  the  con- 
versation." 

"  Have  I  made  you  angry?    But  indeed  I  could  not  help  mentioning 
her  name;  you  would  not  understand  otherwise  what  led  me  lo  do 
a  thing." 

"I  uuder.-tand  far  too  much  for  my  own  peace  of  mind.  Joan,  for 
once  tell  me  the  whole  truth.  Are  you  willing  for  us  to  part  this  after- 
noon, never  lo  tee  each  other  again?" 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  187 

8h«  started,  and  turned  very  pale,  but  that  forced,  hard  voice  gave 
no  evidence  of  his  inward  agony. 

"  Oh,  no!"  she  said,  involuntarily,  and  a  sort  of  dull  gleam  came  to 
his  eyes  as  he  heard  the  words.    "I  said  I  repented,  Ivan — what 
repentance  mean?    I  do  not  wish  for  freedom  now;  only  mischief 
would  come  of  it.     I  am  not  fit  to  be  trusted." 

"  I  am  thankful  you  have  the  honesty  to  own  as  much.  If  you  d'.> 
not  wish  to  be  free,  what  then,  Joan?" 

"  That  is  for  you  to  say,"  she  returned,  humbly.  "  I  have  forfeited 
all  right  to  make  conditions." 

"  Do  you  mean"— looking  at  her  as  though  he  could  not  believe  life 
ears — "  that  if  I  were  to  tell  you  to  come  home  with  me  now — thig  very- 
afternoon — you  would  obey  me?" 

"  Yes,':  was  the  reply,  but  he  saw  her  wince.  "  I  have  made  up  my 
mind  that  I  will  never  disobey  you  again.  I  have  given  you  just  cause 
to  be  angry  with  me,  and  the  only  atonement  I  can  offer  is  to  submit 
myself  to  my  husband's  will." 

He  put  his  hand  to  his  chest  as  though  he  were  conscious  of  some 
pain,  but  there  was  no  change  in  the  measured  slow  tones. 

"  1  am  glad  you  know  your  duty  at  last;  God  grant  it  may  not  be 
too  late  for  you  and  me.  But  I  should  tell  you  a  lie  if  I  said  that  I 
forgave  you,  Joan;  I  have  tried— all  last  night  I  was  trying — but  the 
bitterness  of  it  all  was  too  much  for  me." 

Then  for  the  first  time  she  raised  her  eyes,  and  looked  at  him,  and 
when  she  saw  the  somber  light  in  his  eyes,  and  the  hard  pinched  look 
about  his  mouth,  a  hopelessness  crept  over  her,  and  she  saw  he  had 
spoken  the  truth.  He  was  a  good  man,  but  he  had  not  sufficient  nobil- 
ity of  soul  to  condone  the  past;  he  loved,  but  he  did  not  trust  her. 

"  I  begin  to  fear  that  all  power  of  forgiveness  has  left  me." 

"  Then  you  must  not  ask  me  to  come  back,"  she  replied,  sadly.  "  It 
would  only  be  the  old  miserable  life  again ;  but  this  time  it  w'ould  be 
worse.  I  should  pine  and  sicken  in  such  a  captivity,  and  all  my  good 
resolutions  would  avail  me  nothing.  I  should  feel  you  distrusted  my 
every  look  and  word;  that  in  your  heart  you  were  forever  reproaching 
me — and  there  is  Kachel!  No,  Ivan,  if  you  can  not  forgive  me,  do  not 
tell  me  to  come  back,  for  you  know  t  must  obey  you. ' ' 

"  I  never  meant  to  ask  you,"  he  returned,  dryly,  and  then  again  she 
looked  at  him,  and  a  proud  expression  crossed  her  face.  "  I  am  not  like 
other  men,  Joan.  I  must  see  for  myself  some  proof  of  your  penitence 
before  I  can  say  with  any  degree  of  truth  that  I  forgive.  I  must  learn 
to  trust  you.  1  must  be  sure,  in  my  own  mind,  that  I  arn  not  absolutely 
hateful  to  you  as  your  husband  before  the  same  roof  shelters  us  again. 
You  think  me  hard,  ungenerous,  but  I  am  doing  this  for  your  sake  as 
well  as  my  own." 

"  Where  do  you  wish  me  to  live?"  she  asked,  coldly. 

"  Not  here;  you  can  not  remain  here.  You  must  own  I  am  right  in 
eaying  so,"  and  she  bowed  her  head  in  grave  acquiescence. 

"  You  remember  Mrs.  Medhurst,  Joan?" 

"  An  old  lady  with  white  curls,  who  came  over  to  Button  one  day, 
and  said  she  knew  you  as  a  boy?" 

"  Yes;  she  was-iny  mother's  friend.  She  is  old — nearly  seventy-five 
— but  still  as  fresh  and  active  as  possible,  and  she  lives  in  a  very  pretty 
house  in  South  Kensington.  Do  you  think  you  would  have  any  objec- 
tion to  stay  with  her  for  a  time?" 


188  ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS. 

TI«  spoke  almost  as  though  he  were  asking  a  favor,  and  Joan'i  an- 
•,--,ver  was  prompt. 

"  I  think  the  question  is,  do  you  wish  me  to  go  there,  Ivan?" 

"  I  do,  but  only  for  a  time;"  but  she  took  no  apparent  notice  of  the 
latter  part  of  the  sentence,  though  he  said  it  slowly  and  with  meaning, 
and  he  might  have  added  what  was  in  his  thoughts,  "  until  I  fetch  you 
home,  I  do  wish  it." 

"  Then  of  course  I  will  go.  I  love  Mrs.  Chudleigh  as  though  she 
were  my  mother,  and  I  love  Pauline;  but  you  are  right,  I  must  not 
stay  here.  Am  I  to  go  as  Mrs.  Medhurst's  companion?  Is  that  what 
you  mean?" 

"  No!  no!"  he  returned,  impatiently,  for,  strange  to  say,  her  ready 
submission  to  his  will  almost  angered  him.  It  seemed  to  cut  the 
ground  from  his  feet,  and  made  him  feel  that  he  was  wanting  in  gen- 
erosity. He  was  ashamed  of  his  irritable  nerves,  but  he  could  hot  keep 
his  voice  under  control.  "  No;  my  wife  has  no  need  to  earn  her  liveli- 
hood. I  have  more  money  than  I  know  how  to  spend.  I  will  fix  your 
allowance,  and  if  you  exceed  it,  you  can  write  to  me  for  what,  you 
want.  Mrs.  Medhurst  has  invited  you  to  stay  with  her  as  a  friend. 
She  is  wise  as  well  as  kind,  and  will  ask  no  questions  that  you  will  not 
care  to  answer.  I  shall  be  glad  if  you  will  make  yourself  pleasant  to 
her." 

"  Am  I  to  go  about  alone?  You  had  better  tell  me  all  your  wishes, 
Ivan."  Then  he  bit  his  lip  angrily,  for  he  knew  that  tone  of  old. 

"  Mrs.  Medhurst  is  not  your  keeper;  she  is  only  a  kind  old  friend 
who  has  offered  a  temporary  home  to  my  wife,  because  she  knows  the 
circumstances,  and  thinks  with  me  that  it  will  be  better  for  us  to  be 
apart  for  a  time." 

"  She  is  in  your  confidence?" 

"  Yes,  she  is  in  my  confidence;  she  will  be  in  yours,  too,  if  you  care 
to  make  her  a  friend.  She  is  a  very  comfortable  sort  of  person.  You 
will  find  yourself  thoroughly  at  home,  and  you  will  go  in  and  out  just 
as  you  choose. ' ' 

ft  I  am  a  prisoner  on  parole,  then.  Ivan,  I  must  sav  I  wonder  at 
your  indiscretion.  I  thought  our  notions  of  honor  differed, "  but  he 
was  wise  enough  to  pass  over  this  taunt  in  silence.  He  guessed  how 
her  proud  spirit  was  chafing  under  the  yoke. 

*'  If  you  will  not  dislike  it,  Joan,  I  shall  come  and  see  you  some- 
times. I  think  it  will  be  best,  and" — here  he  stopped,  and  then  went 
on  a  little  awkwardly — "and  then,  perhaps,  there  is  some  chance  of 
our  becoming  better  friends. ' ' 

"  I  do  not  think  so,"  was  the  provoking  answer,  far  Joan  felt  she 
could  not  be  good  much  longer;  "but  all  the  same,  you  hud  better 
come  and  judge  for  yourself  how  I  have  been  behaving." 

"  And  you  will  write  to  me  if  you  want  anything — not  to  Rachel." 
Then  she  broke  into  an  angry  little  laugh. 

"  I  am  glad  there  are  to  be  limits  to  my  obedience.  Thank  you  for 
sparing  me  one  humiliation;  at  least,  I  can  be  grateful  to  vou  for  that. " 

"  I  did  not  wish  to  speak  on  that  subject,"  he  said,  stillly,  ''  but  per- 
haps I  owe  it  to  you  to  say  something  about  my  sister.  I  believe  she 
<>t  behaved  to  you  always  with  fairness.  She  was  much  too  hard 
on  a  girl  of  your  age.  She  demanded  impossibility  mv  it  was 

a  mistake  leaving  the  correspondence  in  her  hands.  It  has  widened  the 
breach  between  us;  it  has  led  to  all  this  terrible  state  of  things. " 

'  Thank  you  for  telling  me  tub. " 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  189 

':  It  is  the  truth,  and  I  must  speak  it,  but  from  this  moment  I  shall 
never  mention  Rachel's  name  in  this  way  again.  Now  there  is  nothing 
more  that  I  need  say  to  you  to-day.  I  will  see  Mrs.  Chudleigh  and 
arrange  with  her  about  your  visit  to  Mrs.  Medhurst.  I  wish  it  to  be 
regarded  as  a  visit." 

"It  is  not  penal  servitude,  then?  I  was  wondering  if  I  had  any 
chance  of  obtaining  a  ticket-of-leave. "  Then  he  flung  himself  away 
from  her,  in  a  sort  of  impotent  rage  that  she  had  still  the  power  to  vex 
him;  but  the  next  moment  Joan  called  him  back. 

"Ivan,  I  will  be  good.  You  shall  see  how  hard  I  mean  to  try." 
And  then  she  said,  a  little  plaintively,  "  Were  you  going  away  without 
saying  good-bye?" 

""  What  is  the  use  of  all  that  between  us?"  he  said,  harshly,  but  all 
the  same  he  held  out  his  hand.  But  Joan  did  not  take  it. 

' '  You  are  right,  Ivan.  It  is  no  use  pretending  to  be  friends,  unless 
one  really  forgives.  My  sins  are  too  black;  you  can  not  wipe  them 
away  yet.  When  you  forgive  me  really  you  shall  give  me  your  hand, 
but  I  will  now  only  say  that  I  am  sorry,"  and  then  she  passed  by  him, 
and  there  was  no  longer  the  gleam  of  her  ruddy-brown  hair  between 
him  and  the  setting  sun,  and  the  musical,  scornful  voice  had  died  into 
silence.  "  Joan,  come  back!"  but  there  was  no  answer — only  the  echo 
of  his  own  voice  seemed  to  mock  him.  "  Joan,  come  back." 

CHAPTER  XXIX. 

JOAN  LEAVES  THE  WITCHEN8. 

Shall  I  for  this  indulge  complaint, 
Turn  traitor  and  cry  shame  on  life? 
No!  be  my  prayer,  however  faint, 
Lord,  help  me  to  live  out  my  strife. 

PHILIP  STANHOPE  WORSLKT. 

BEFORE  another  half  hour  had  elapsed  Mrs.  Chudleigh  had  learned 
the  result  of  the  interview  from  Mr.  Thorpe  himself,  and  in  spite  of  her 
disappointment  and  the  strong  disapproval  with  which  she  listened  to 
the  proposed  plan  for  Joan,  she  could  not  but  own  that  he  expressed 
himself  with  great  moderation,  and  certainly  bore  himself  with  dignity 
under  very  trying  circumstances. 

"  I  am  too  great  a  stranger  to  have  any  right  to  obtrude  my  advice," 
she  said  when  he  had  finished,  "  but  you  are  my  son's  friend,  and  Joan 
is  very  dear  to  us,  and  I  can  not  help  saying  that  I  wish  you  could  haye 
decided  otherwise." 

"  You  mean  that  Joan  should  come  straight  home  to  us?  If  I  listened 
to  my  cwn  wishes,  JVJrs.  Chudleigh,  I  should  have  taken  her  back  at 
once.  A  man  wants  his  wife,  and  I  have  been  lonely  long  enough;  but 
my  sober  judgment  tells  me  that  it  would  be  wiser  to  wait;  that  there 
will  be  more  hope  of  a  permanent  reconciliation  if  we  are  apart  a  little 
longer." 

"  Of  course  Joan  will  do  as  you  wish?" 

"  Yes,  she  was  far  more  reasonable  than  I  hoped  to  find  her.  She 
could  not  quite  control  her  temper  once  or  twice,  but  I  could  see  how 
sore  she  felt.  I  am  not  without  hope,  now  that  she  has  owned  her 
faults  so  frankly;"  and  then  after  a  little  more  conversation  he  got  up 
and  went  away., 

"He  is  very  masterful,"  Mrs.  Chudleigh  observed  to  her  son  after- 
ward. "I  can  quite  understand  now  why  Joan  is  so  afraid  of  him. 


190  ONLY     TTT  F.  .  KSS. 

Tie  knows  how  to  keep  a  woman  down,  and  to  make  her  feel  the  for«e 
of  his  displeasure  without  saving  an  angry  word;  lie  never  forgets  him- 
self for  a  moment,  and  yet.  as  lie  talked  i  felt  1  never  liked  him  so  well. 

•loan  tried  to  eany  oiV  her  defeat  with  a  high  hand. 

"  It  is  just  as  I  told  you  it  would  be,"  she  said,  when  Mrs.  Clmdloigh 
entered  the  school-room  with  a  very  grave  face.     "  Ivan  is  ineorri 
lie  has  made  up  his  mind  that  I  am  to  be  properly  punished,  and  no 
scepter  of  grace  is  to  be  extended  to  me:  he  has  already  settled  the  term 
of  my  imprisonment,  and  has  provided  me  with  a  keeper." 

"  My  dear,  I  hope  you  did  not  talk  to  your  husband  in  this  r< 
fashion." 

"I  am  afraid  I  did.     I  said  some  very  provoking  things,  but  lie 
actually  passed  them  by  without  a  word.      I  was  obliged  i<>  beg  his 
pardon  once,  I  forgot  myself  so,  and  then  I  remembered  my  v 
obedience,  and  I  told  him  he  might  say  what  he  liked." 

"  He  thought  you  were  very  reasonable." 

A  faint  blush  rose  to  Joan's  cheek.  "  Did  he  say  so?  How  sti- 
lt would  be  to  hear  Ivan  praise  me!  No,  I  will  own  that  on  the  whole 
he  has  not  treated  me  badly;  it  is  his  nature  to  be  severe;  he  is  a  hard 
man,  and  soft  speeches  never  came  easily  to  him.  He  would  have 
shaken  hands  with  me,  only  I  told  him  there  was  no  use  in  pretending 
to  be  friends.  '  ' 

"  He  says  Mrs.  Medhurstis  a  very  nice  old  lady,  and  that  you  will  be 
sure  to  like  her.  I  confess  I  was  touched  by  his  thoughtfulness  for 
your  comfort.  We  have  arranged  that  you  are  to  go  to  Kensington  on 
Tuesday,  and  I  am  to  drive  with  you,  and,  unless  you  object,  I  am  to. 
go  in  and  see  Mrs.  Medhurst." 

"  You  must  do  as  you  like  about  that,  but  Ivan  will  not  be  satisfied 
unless  you  see  me  safe  in  charge  of  my  keeper,"  and  then  she  broke 
down  and  hid  her  face  on  her  friend's  shoulder.  "  Oh,  I  have  been  so 
happy  here;  I  do  love  this  place,  and  now  you  are  sending  me  away!" 

"  I  do  not  see  how  you  could  stay  with  us,  Joan;  my  dear,  think  for 
a  moment,  would  it  be  right?" 

"  No—  no—  of  course  I  must  go,  it  is  only  part  of  my  punishment; 
but,  dear  Mrs.  Chudleigh,  you  will  come  and  see  me  sometimes  —  you 
and  Pauline?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  we  will  come;  but  you  will  not  be  long  there;  we  shall  see 
you  soon4n  your  husband's  house,"  but  Joan  only  shook  her  hca 
jectedly. 

"  There  is  no  hope  of  that,  and  I  do  not  know  that  I  wish  it,     Ivan 
uiiig  to  see  me,  but  his  visits  will  be  terrible.     Think  of  a  wife  amj 
husband  meeting  under  those  circumstances;  it  makes  me  feel  like 


'  onvict^only  there  will  be  no  grating  between  us.     I  Jut.  what  on 
earth  shall  I  say  to  him  or  he  to  me?    I  will  not  have  even  a 
duct  badge  to  show  him,"  and  then  Mrs.  Chudleigh  smiled  and  gently 
reproved  her. 

"  It  will  all  come  right  in  time,  Joan,  if  you  will  only  be  ]• 

the  girls  will  be  back  directly,  and  I  must  go  down-stairs.     Shall 

e  you  in  the  drawing-room  this  evening?"  but  to  this  .loan  returned 

a  decided  negative.     She  was  too  depressed  and  siek  at  heart  to  join 

the  family  group;  the  strain  of  that  interview  was  beginning  to  make 

itself  felt,  and  she  was  only  fit  to  be  alone. 

Bhe  sat  alone  in  the  school-room  all  that  evening,  and  her  thou 
were  very  terrible  to  her;  neither  Uratrix  nor  Pauline 
At  any  other  time  Pauline  would  have  sought  her  out  at  once,  for  they 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  191 

had  always  been  "inseparable,  but  as  she  sat  there  in  numb  wretched- 
ness she  told  herself  that  this  too  was  part  of  her  punishment. 

She  did  not  see  Pauline  until  late  the  next  day.  She  had  always  break- 
fasted  with  her  pupils  in  the  school-room,  and  it  was  not  until  luncheon 
that  she  saw  the  rest  of  the  family,  and  she  had  made  up  her  mind  that 
she  and  Pauline  would  meet  them;  but  just  as  the  little  girls  had  put 
away  their  books  and  had  run  out  in  the  garden,  she  heard  a  tap  at  the 
door,  and  Pauline  entered. 

She  came  in  hurriedly,  and  her  manner  was  decidedly  nervous;  still 
she  was  going  to  kiss  Joan  as  usual,  only  Joan  drew  back. 

"Perhaps  you  had  better  not  kiss  me,  Pauline?"  she  said,  rather 
proudly. 

"  Oh,  of  course  if  you  do  not  wish  it,"  returned  Pauline,  awkwardly, 
and  then  she  moved  the  papers  on  the  table,  and  seemed  at  a  loss  what 
to  say  next.  She  did  not  like  to  encounter  Joan's  eyes,  they  looked  so 
sad  and  reproachful.  "  I  promised  mother  that  I  would  come  and  see 
you,"  she  went  on,  with  a  shade  of  temper  in  her  voice,  "  not  that  there 
is  any  use  in  doing  so." 

"  Of  course  I  know  how  you  must  feel  about  it,  Pauline;  you  are  so 
honest,  so  absolutely  true  yourself,  that  you  can  not  understand  any 
want  of  straightforwardness  in  others.  I  knew  we  could  never  be 
friends  again  after  this,  that  is  why  I  told  you  not  to  kiss  me." 

"  I  think  it  is  very  hard  upon  me,  Huldah,"  and  then  Pauline  bit  her 
lips  and  reddened — "  1  mean  Mrs.  Thorpe." 

"  My  name  is  Huldah,"  returned  Joan,  coldly.  "  My  aunt  always 
called  me  so:  it  was  my  husband  and  Rachel  who  preferred  Joan.  You 


can  go  on  calling  me  Huldah  if  you  like. 
"Thank you,  I  do  prefer  it;" 


and  then  she  added,  brusquely,  for 

Pauline  was  always  brusque  when  she  felt  most  strongly  about  things, 
"  No,  it  is  no  use  pretending;  we  can  never  be  friends  in  the  same 
way;  I  thought  you  were  a  girl  like  myself,  but  all  the  time  you  were  a 
married  woman!" 

"  Of  course  it  was  very  wrong." 

"  Wrong!  I  never  heard  of  greater  wrong-doing.  Bee  and  I  feel  that 
poor  Mr.  Thorpe  is  greatly  to  be  pitied.  I  am  sorry  if  I  seem  unkind, 
Huldah,  but  I  can  not  say  what  I  do  not  mean." 

"  I  think  it  is  kind  to  speak  to  me  at  all." 

"  I  could  not  help  crying  about  it  when  mother  told  me,  and  yet  1 
was  angry  too.  I  have  only  two  friends  in  the  world — you  and  Char- 
lotte—and now  I  have  been  deceived  in  you,  it  does  seem  so  cruel," 
and  Pauline's  eyes  filled  with  tears.-  The  whole  thing  was  so  foreign  t<r 
her  experience,  she  hardly  knew  how  to  deal  with  it. 

The  sight  of  Pauline's  distress  and  perplexity  was  too  much  for  Joan's 
£oft  heart,  and  the  next  moment  she  had  caught  the  girl  in  her  arms, 
and  had  kissed  her  half  a  dozen  times. 

"  Don't  cry  about  me,  Pauline  darling,  I  am  not  worth  it.  You  shall 
say  what  you  like  to  me,  and  I  shall  only  love  you  all  the  better.  Do 
you  think  I  shall  ever  forget  all  your  goodness  to  me?  I  shall  always 
be  grateful,  always,  even  though  we  are  no  longer  friends." 

"  But,  Huldah,  it  has  made  me  so  unhappy,  and  I  shall  miss  you  so." 

"  You  will  be  better  without  me,  darling;  you  are  too  much  disap- 
pointed in  me  to  care  for  my  companionship  now;  it  is  only  an  angelic 
nature  like  your  mother's  that  knows  how  to  forgive  perfectly.  I  shalZ 
not  think  you  hard,  Pauline;  in  your  heart  you  will  be  sorry  for  me. 
How  can  I  expect  you  to  feel  otherwise  when  my  own  husband  can  not 


OHLY    THE 

forgive  me?"    Then  Pauline  looked  at  her  wistfully  and  did  not  an* 
awer,  and  just  then  li,  indcd  for  luncheon. 

Bee's  marked  coldness  aiui  scant  civility  did  not  trouble  Joan  as  much 
as  Pauline's  petulant  sorrow;  it  was  the  girl's  first  disappointment,  and 
she  bore  it  with  youthful  impatience.  "  Mother,  wlrjr  can't  people  be 
good?''  she  had  said  almost  passionately  the  previous  night.  "  I  think 
I  must  be  wicked  myself,  for  1  can  not  love  people  who  disappoint  me." 
And  indeed  for  a  time  her  love  for  Joan  seemed  to  die  a  natural  death. 

But  affection  is  not  so  easily  killed,  and  Pauline  moped  visibly  over 
her  broken  friendship.  Joan — or  rather  Iluldah,  as  she  always 'called 
her — had  been  such  a  bright,  joyous  companion,  they  had  had  so  much 
in  common,  that  Pauline  found  it  hard  to  replace  her.  Even  Charlotte's 
kindly  common  sense  and  Uremia's  enthusiasm  could  not  compensate 
for  Joan's  sweetness  and  lovable  ways.  A  Her  a  lime  her  girlish  wrath 
began  to  evaporate  and  she  became  eager  to  make  allowances  for  the 
culprit,  and  Mrs.  Chudleigh,  who  was  a  peace-maker  by  nature,  rejoiced 
at  this  softened  mood. 

"  Yes,  I  will  go  and  see  her,  mother;  but  we  can  never  be  friends 
again." 

"  Perhaps  not,  my  dear;  but  at  least  you  can  be  kind  to  the  poor  girl. 
She  is  trying  to  retrieve  the  past,  and  it  is  not  for  us  to  put  a  stumbling- 
block  in  her  \vay. "  And  then  Pauline  went. 

Poor  Joan,  those  last  few  days  at  the  Witchens  were  very  titter  to 
her!  Pauline's  estrangement  and  Bee's  hauteur  did  not  add  much  to 
her  comfort.  Bernard  was  happily  away  with  a  reading-party,  but 
Geoffrey's  elaborate  civility  made  her  uncomfortable,  it  was  such  a  con- 
trast to  his  old  familiarity.  E*ven  the  little  girls'  round  eyes,  wide  with 
childish  curiosity,  made  her  feel  nervous  and  irritable;  indeed,  she 
could  hardly  have  lived  through  those  days  without  some  hysterical 
outbreak,  except  for  Mrs.  Chudleigh's  motherly  kindness,  and  the  grave 
watchfulness  with  which  Launcelot  interposed  between  her  and  any 
threatened  awkwardness. 

"  You  must  keep  her  with  you  as  much  as  possible,  Madella,"  he  had 
said  to  his  step-mother.  "  You  must  not  let  her  sit  and  brood  alone. 
Pauline  is  unmanageable  just  now,  and  it  is  no  use  talking  to  Bee  when 
she  is  in  one  of  her  little  tempers.  They  will  neither  of  them  do  any 
thing  to  help  her." 

And  he  treated  the  children's  curiosity  in  the  same  wise  way. 

"  Xo,  she  is  not  Miss  Kossiter  at  all,  but  there  were;  reasons  why  she 
did  not  wish  to  call  herself  Mrs.  Thorpe.  Her  husband  is  very  fo'nd  of 
her.  Yes,  she  is  unhappy;  she  has  known  a  great  deal  of  trouble,  poor 
tiling,  and  you  must  be  very  kind  to  her.  She  is  going  on  a  visit,  to  a 
nice  old  lady,  a  friend  of  her  husband,  and  after  that  she  will  go  home, 
and  then  perhaps  you  will  see  her."  And  this  prospect  seemed  to  ton- 
sole  the  children,  who  were  very  sad  at  tin;  idea  of  losing  their  bright 
young  governess.  When  the  last  morning  came  IJee'.s  still'nc.-s  relaxed 
a  little,  and  even  Geoffrey's  frigid  politeness  thawed  into  something  like 
genuine  feeling  as  .loan  wished  him  good  bye.  Perhaps  he,  too,  felt 
there  was  something  pathetic  in  the  girl's  pale  face  and  dimmed 

"  Good-bye.  Keep  up  your  courage;  it  will  all  come  right."  he  said. 
hurriedly,  pressing  her  hand,  for  (JeolTrey  was  a  kind-hearted  follow  in 
his  way;  and  then  the.  children  clung  about  her,  and  Dee  and  Paulino 
kissed  her,  both  of  them  silently,  only  Pauline's  eyes  were  red.  And 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  193 

then  Launcelot  drew  her  arm  in  his  and  put  her  in  the  carriage,  where 
Mrs.  Chudleigh  had  already  seated  herself. 

"  Good-bye,  Mrs.  Thorpe.  God  bless  you,"  he  said.  And  Joan  tried 
to  speak  in  answer  but  failed. 

"  Oh,  how  good  he  is!"  she  said,  bursting  into  tears  as  they  drove 
away,  leaving  him  standing  there  bare-headed.  "  Good?"  Would  she 
ever  know  his  nobleness? 

Alas!  Joan  in  her  tardy  repentance  had  yet  to  realize  the  bitter  truth 
that  it  is  as  impossible  to  estimate  the  probable  consequence  of  even  one 
act  of  wrong-doing  as  it  would  be  to  measure  the  watery  circles  raised 
by  one  small  pebble  flung  out  of  an  urchin's  hand!  It  is  a  terrible 
thought  how  our  sins  and  failures  influence  other  lives,  how  even  un- 
born generations  may  rue  the  effect  of  our  want  of  faithfulness.  The 
worst  part  of  Joan's  punishment  lay  in  the  knowledge  that  she  had 
clouded  the  joyous  existence  of  one  of  the  happiest  of  God's  creatures, 
not  dreaming,  in  her  unavailing  remorse,  that  the  fagots  she  had 
kindled  would  only  scorch  the  outer  man,  that  by  Divine  help  the  real 
Launcelot  would  pass  harmlessly  through  the  purifying  flame  and  rise 
to  nobler  purposes. 

But  as  Launcelot  closed  the  heavy  door  behind  him,  and  shut  himself 
in  his  solitary  study,  he  told  Jiimself  that  the  sunshine  had  left  the 
house,  and  that  henceforth  he  might  write  up  "  Ichabod  "  against  his 
unloved  life,  for  surely  all  glory  had  departed  from  him. 

Yes,  as  he  sat  there  sad  and  lonely  among  his  art  treasures,  trying  to 
read  but  unable  to  fix  his  attention  oh  the  page,  he  was  even  now  telling 
himself  that  his  only. chance  of  salvation,  humanly  speaking,  was  to 
•work  as  though  his  life  depended  upon  it,  and  to  love  his  fellow-creat- 
ures better  than  himself.  As  these  salutary  thoughts  passed  through 
his  mind,  he  repeated  to  himself  Charles  Kingsley's  quaint  lines— lines 
that  hold  a  mine  of  wisdom  in  them : 

"  Do  the  work  that's  nearest, 

Though  it's  dull  at  whiles. 
Helping  when  we  meet  them, 

Lame  dogs  over  stiles; 
See  in  every  hedgerow 

Marks  of 'angels1  feet, 
Epics  in  each  pebble 

Underneath  our  feet." 

Two  hours  later  his  step-mother  found  him  in  the  same  attitude;  but 
as  she  stood  beside  him,  putting  back  the  thick  waves  of  hair  with  soft, 
motherly  touches,  he  looked  up  at  her  and  smiled. 

"  Weil,  Maclella?" 

"Everything  is  as  satisfactory  as  we  could  expect.  Mrs.  Medhurst 
received  Joan  most  kindly,  and  tried  to  put  her  at  her  ease.  She  began 
talking  at  once  about  Mr.  Thorpe  in  the  most  natural  way.  She- calls 
him  Ivan,  so  I  suppose  they  are  very  old  friends.  '  Ivan  thought  it 
would  be  better  for  you  to  have  a  front  room,  my  dear,  during  your  visil ; 
it  is  so  much  more  cheerful.'  Little  speeches  like  that  every  now  and 
then.  She  seems  a  nice  old  lady,  very  lively  and  brisk  for  her  age. 
And  the  house  is  so  pretty.  A  most  respectable  woman,  who  has  been 
Mrs.  Medhurst's  factotum  for  the  last  twenty  years,  showed  us  all  over 
it.  Joan's  room  was  charming,  full  of  flowers,  which  she  said  Ivan  had 
ordered." 

"  And  you  left  her  fairly  comfortable?" 

"  Well,  we  must  give  her  lime  to  settle  down.  Of  course  she  will 
feel  stiange  at  first,"  was  the  some  what  evasive  answer,  Not  for  worlds 


194  ON : 


"would  Mrs.  Olmdleigh  have  told  Launcclot  of  the  heart-broken  way  in 
•which  .loan  threw  herself  in  her  arms  and  would  hardly  let.  h. 
have  promised  to  drive  over  next  week  and  take  Pauline  with  mi',  if  she 
•will  consent  to  accompany  my.  There  is  the  dressing- bell,  Launce, 
and  I  must  prepaic  for  dinner.  Pauline's  friends.  Charlotte  .Maxwell 
and  her  sister,  are  coming."  Hut  to  this  piece  of  information  Launcc 
lot  merely  returned  an  indifferent  shrug  of  the  shoulder.  What  did  it 
matter  to  him  if  the  whold  world  were  coming  to  dinner? 

But  even  Launcelot  in  his  solitary  wretchedness,  and  .loan  in  her 
exile,  would  hardly  have  consented  to  change  places  with  Rachel  Thorpe 
Irving  to  break  down  the  invisible  barrier  that  seemed  suddenly  en 

en  her  brother  and  herself.  .V  week  had  passed  since  that  evening 
•when  Ivan  had  left  her  to  go  to  the  Witchens,  and  yet  no  word  had 
d  his  lips  about  Joan.  Only  when  he  came  back  he  hud  shut 
himself  into  his  study  without  coming  in  search  of  her,  as  usual,  to  re- 
tail his  news  and  wish  her  good-night;  and  though  she  had  sat  in  the 
drawing-room  i-  i  miserable  until  half  the  night  was  over,  she 

had  not  ventured  to  go  to  him. 

But  the  next  morning  he  had  met  her  as  usual,  and,  in  spite  of  his 
care-worn  look,  there  had  been  no  perceptible  change  iu  his  manner 
toward  her.  lie  had  spoken  of  her  work  and  his,  and  had  asked  her 
opinion  on  the  investment  of  some  spare  capital. 

"  I  think  railways  will  be  the  best  and  safest,  though  Stcadman  wants 
me  to  join  their  company,  but  I  said,  '  No,  thank  you,  the  affair  looks 
shaky  now.'  And  I  am  not  one  for  prolonging  life  at  all  costs."  And 
she  had  agreed  with  him. 

And  again  that  evening  he  had  talked  about  investments,  and  when 
he  withdrew  to  his  study  under  the  pretext  of  business  she  made  no 
attempt  to  detain  him;  neither  did  she  follow  him,  as  she  had  so  often 
done,  just  for  the  pleasure  of  sitting  silently  in  his  presence,  content  if 
he  never  spoke  a  word  to  her  until  midnight.  What  did  he  want  with 
her  now?  And  Rachel's  face  grew  grini  and  gray  as  she  sat  alone  try- 
ing to  occupy  herself. 

But  on  the  night  in  which  Joan  took  possession  of  her  strange  new 
room,  and  while  she  was  looking  with  shy,  wild  eyes,  like  a  captured 
bird's,  at  the  flowers  that  Ivan  had  sent  tliere,  and  trying  to  gulp  down 
the  lump  in  her  throat  as  she  thought  of  her  dear  old  room  at  I  he 
Witchens,  Rachel  was  telling  herself  that  she  could  bear  it  no  In 
and  when  she  saw  her  brother  putting  up  his  paper  and  prepari 
leave  the  room  as  usual,  the  moment  he  had  finished  his  dinner,  she  said, 
rather  sharply — 

"  You  are' surely  not  busy  again  to-night.  Ivan.     Your  articL 
finished  yesterday." 

"  Oh,  it  is  not  business  connected  with  the  '  Imperial  Review, '  "  he 
returned;  "  there  are  other  things,"  and  then  he  stopped  as  though  he 
were  embarrassed. 

"  Why  do  you  not  tell  me  plainly  that  you  have  no  longer  any  wish 
for  my  company?  that  you  would  rather  be  alone?     Ivan,  1  can  not  en 
dure  this  state  of  things  any  longer;  if  you  are  displeased  with  ni' 
•>u,  why  do  you  not  tell  me  so  plainly?" 

.  to  speak  to  you  on  the  subject.     Surely  I  have 
n  right  to  be  -ilcnt  if  I  rh«. 

"  Not.  with  me,"  .-lie  returned,  bitterly,  "  unless  we  have  ceased  to  be 

.111   nothing  to  you.     Even  if  1  have  made  mi.stak- 
yo;i  think  you  have  a  right  to  be  angry  with  me,  you  should  tell  i: 


ONLY    THE    GOVERHESS.  195 

and  give  me  an  opportunity  of  clearing  m}rself."  Then  he  closed  the 
door  and  walked  across  to  the  hearth-rug,  and  as  he  stood  there  looking 
down  upon  her  as  she  sat  in  her  high-backed  chair,  his  face  looked  dark 
and  gloomy. 

"  Well,  what  is  it  you  wisli  me  to  say?"  he  asked,  harshly,  and  the 
tone  of  his  voice  was  dreadful  to  her. 

' '  Say  the  truth— that  you  are  angry  with  rne  for  keeping  my  own 
counsel  about  Joan." 

"  So  1  am,  bitterly  angry  and  disappointed;  but  there  was  no  need  to 
tell  you  so.  I  have  no  wish  to  quarrel  with  you,  Rachel.  Doubtless; 
you  had  your  reasons  for  what  you  did,  or  rather  tailed  to  do,  but  of 
course  1  must  regard  you  as  Joan's  enemy,  and,  as  her  husband,  I  am 
bound  to  protect  her  against  you."  Then  Rachel  grew  pale  to  her 
lips. 

"  Oh,  Ivan,  how  can  you  be  so  cruel?" 

"  Nay,  it  is  you  who  have  been  cruel — cruel  to  that  poor  child  whom 
you  knew  was  wandering  in  her  willfulness  about  the  world,  cruel  to 
me,  whom  you  also  knew  to  be  anxious  and  lonely.  Why  do  you 
compel  me  to  speak  on  this  subject?  How  am  1  ever  to  forget  thai  I 
trusted  my  wife  in  your  care,  that  I  put  the  correspondence  in  your 
hands,  and  that  for  more  than  a  year  no  word  passed  between  you?" 

"  Ivan,  it  was  a  mistake,  I  own  it  frankly,  but  indeed  it  was  for  your 
Bake  I  kept  silence.  I  was  terribly  anxious  about  Joan;  I  would  have 

fiven  worlds  for  news  of  her,  but  I  dared  not  add  to  your  burdens,  and 
thought,"  faltering  in  her  speech  under  his  cold,  level  glance,  for  she 
had  risen  too,  and  they  were  nearly  of  a  height,  "  I  thought  you  would 
suffer  less,  that  in  time  you  might  cease  to'  miss  her,  if  her  name  were 
not  mentioned  between  us." 

"  Pshaw!  how  can  a  woman  of  your  intelligence  deal  in  such  false 
sophistries?  Do  you  not  know  a  man's  nature  better  than  that  V  '  ( 'ease 
to  miss  her.'  Could  you  know  Joan  and  think  such  a  thing  possible? 
If  I  ever  loved  her,  I  love  her  ten  times  more  in  spite  of  her  sins." 

"  Ivan,  is  Joan  coming  back  here.'1" 

"  Of  course  she  is  coming  back  when  I  think  fit  to  fetch  her,  but  she 
must  earn  my  forgiveness  first." 

"  Then  p>.Thap>  it  will  be  best  for  me  to  leave  you."  Rachel's  voice 
was  very  faint,  so  that  he  could  hardly  hear  the  word. 

"  To  leave  me— do  you  mean  seek  another  home?  No,  Rachel.  I 
am  not  quite  so  angry  as  that.  I  will  never  turn  my  sister  from  my 
doors,  just  when  she  is  getting  old  too,  neither  will  I  give  Joan  that  tri- 
umph. She  shall  come  here  and  take  her  place  as  my  wife,  and  the 
sole  mistress  of  the  house,  and  no  one  shall  speak  a  word  against  her  in 
my  hearing  when  I  have  once  brought  myself  to  forgive  her,  but  all  the 
same  she  shall  not  drive  my  sister  away." 

"  Thank  you,  Ivan,"  and  Rachel's  stern  face  twitched  with  emotion. 
"  I  think  it  would  break  my  heart  to  live  under  any  roof  but  yours,  but 
all  the  same  you  have  but  to  speak  the  word,  and  I  will  go." 

"  Then  I  will  never  speak  it!"  and  he  turned  away  as  though  he  were 
not  ready  to  meet  her  grateful  glance — but  she  laid  her  hand  on  lib 
arm. 

"  Ivan,  do  not  go  yet.  You  will  let  me  say  how  truly  sorry  I  am  for 
all  this." 

"  I  think  you  ought  to  be  sorry,  Rachel.'' 

"  I  am! — 1  am!"  vehemently.     l<  I  would  give  much  to  undo  it  now 
You  mean  to  forgive  Joan — try  to  forgive  me  too." 


10(5  ONLY  TTTT:   <;<>VI:I;N'ESS. 

"  I  have  tried,  but  T  foci  as  though  I  h:iv<-  ]»-t.  all  tru^t  in  human  nat- 
ure. Launcelot  Omdleiirh  lias  been  my  <>,dy  friend,  and  I  think  ho  ia 
faithful." 

"-And  I  have  failed  you!  Ivan,  I  think  you  have  punished  mo  sulli- 
ciently  now,  that  I  should  live  to  hear  such  words  from  your  lips."  And 
now  ii  was  Kachel  who  turned  a.way  that  he  might  not  see  the  tears  run- 
iiiug  down  her  face. 

"  I  am  sorry  if  1  have  hurt  you,  Rachel,  but  if  t lungs  are  ever  to  come 
right  between'  us  I  must  speak  the  truth.  In  a  little  while,  when  .loan 
comes  back  to  me,  I  shall  feel  less  bitterly  about  things;  until  then  you 
must  not  try  to  force  my  confidence.  I  mean  to  behave  tn  you  as  well 
as  I  can.  Will  that  content  you?" 

"  It  must  content  me,  I  suppose;  but,  Ivan,  surely  you  will  tell  me 
where  Joan  is  at  present?" 

Then  he  answered  her  with  obvious  reluctance. 

"  She  is  not  at  the  Witchens.  Mrs.  Medhurst  has  kindly  invited  her 
to  spend  the  autumn  with  her." 

"  Do  you  wish  me  to  go  and  see  her?" 

"  Certainly  not.  I  shall  go  myself,  and  if  Joan  wants  anything  she 
will  write  tome." 

"  I  think,"  she  returned,  slowly,  for  all  the  jealous  pain  in  her  nature 
seemed  to  wake  under  his  words,  "  that  you  are  keeping  back  part  of 
the  truth  from  me — in  your  heart  you  have  already  forgiven  Joan!" 

"  You  are  mistaken,"  was  the  somewhat  dry  answer,  but  a  dusky 
flush  rose  to  his  brow.  "We  have  both  of  us  hard  natures,  Rachel, 
but  I  pray  every  night  that  I  may  be  able  to  forgive  her,"  and  then,  ;n 
though  he  had  said  too  much,  he  wished  his  sister  good-night  somewhat 
abruptly  and  left  the  room. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

LAUNCELOT  FINDS  FAULT  WITH  THE  SALAD. 

In  all  my  life  I  never  heard  that  man  give  vent  to  a  low  or  mean  word,  or  evince 
a  low  or  mean  sentiment.  .  .  .  This  secret  was  very  simple  if  one  could  attain  it; 
but  he  attained  it  by  not  trying  to  attain  it,  for  it  was  merely  never  thinking  about 
himself.  He  was  always  thinking  how  to  please  others  in  the  most  trivial  mat- 
ters.— CHARLES  KINGSLEY'S Eulogy  on  Charles  Jtluckford  Mttn*ji<  id. 

TROUBLES  seldom  come  singly,  and  the  Chudleigh  family  were  to 
realize  this  homely  truth,  for  it  was  just  at  this  inconvenient  time  when 
the  minds  of  his  elders  were  otherwise  engrossed  that  Freckles  cli 
sicken  with  the  measles;  and,  as  ill-luck  would  have  it,  just  as  si, 
spending  his  holidays  at  a  school-fellow's  house  at  Button.     But  then 
Freckles  was  always  in  some  mischief,  as  Geoffrey  remarked. 

When  the  letter  reached  them  late  one  evening,  about  a  week  after 
Joan  had  left  them,  Freckles's  hostess  had  written  off  in  no  small  per- 
turbation of  spirit;  she  had  not  long  been  married,  and  was  new  to  her 
duties  as  step-mother,  and  was  somewhat  bewildered  by  the  boisterous 
spirits  of  three  tine,  healthy  lads,  who  dubbed  her  mammy  on  the  spot, 
and  ruled  her  most  royally  ever  after  with  the  full  connivance  and  ap- 
probation of  their  father, 

Mrs.  Clmdleitrh  left  the  family  group  at  once  and  carried  oil'  the  letter 
cuss  it  privately  with  her  chief  adviser,  who  heard  her  to  the  end 
rery  patiently, 
fc  "  I  am  afraid  Mrs.  Townsend  is  very  mucii  troubled,  Lauuce;  slio 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  197 

says  Cecil  has  never  had  the  measles,  though  she  hopes  Frank  and 
Henry  are  safe.  You  see  what  she  says  about  a  spare  room.  I  am  quite 
sure  she  would  be  much  relieved  if  I  were  to  go,  and,  of  course,  I  should 
like  to  nurse  my  own  boy." 

"  Oh,  yes,  it  is  very  evident  that  she  is  afraid  of  the  responsibility. 
Of  course  you  must  go,  Madella  mia,  and,  sorry  as  we  shall  be  to  lose 
you,  it  is  plain  that  your  place  is  with  Freckles.  What  a  pickle  that 
boy  is!  One  never  knows  what  he  will  do  next. " 

"Mrs.  Townsend  says  in  her  letter  that  she  can  make  room  for  a 
maid.  Don't  you  think  I  might  take  Susan,  Launce?  She  was  so  help- 
ful last  year  when  Sybil  had  the  chicken-pox." 

"  Certainly,  take  Susan  by  all  means,  and  then  there  will  be  no  fear 
of  your  knocking  yourself  up.  Come,  that  is  all  settled. " 

"  No,  not  quite;  you  spoke  of  going  away  yourself  next  week?" 

"  Oh,  there  is  no  hurry  about  that,"  he  returned,  with  ready  unselfish- 
ness, though  it  was  quite  true  that  he  had  planned  a  lengthy  tour.  "  I 
am  my  own  master,  and  can  regulate  my  movements.  We  can  not  both 
leave  home  just  now,  as  Geoffrey  is  going  to  Scotland  and  the  girls  will 
be  alone. ' ' 

"Of  course  I  could  leave  them  happily  in  your  charge,  but  I  do  not 
like  to  interfere  with  your  plans,  dear.  I)octor  Maxwell  said  last  Satur- 
day tliat  you  were  looking  thin  and  rather  out  of  sorts,  and  most  likely 
you  need  the  change." 

"Doctor  Maxwell  knows  nothing  about  it,"  returned  Launcelot, 
shortly;  and  then,  MS  though  ashamed  of  his  unusual  irritation,  he  con- 
tinued more  quietly,  "  Don't  trouble  about  me,  Madella,  I  am  in  first- 
rale  condition.  Just  get  that  boy  well,  and  take  him  to  Eastbourne  for 
a  change,  and  I  will  stay  and  look  after  the  girls  and  Bernard  when  he 
3  back.  1  can  go  away  later.  Stedman  has  work  for  some  months 
in  Dresden;  it  would  not  be  a  bad  idea  to  join  him  about  the  end  of 
September,  and  then  go  on  to  Berlin  and  Munich.  It  would  be  a  change 
after  Italy,  and  1  want  to  see  the  art  galleries." 

"  That  is  so  like  you,  dear,  to  make  the  best  instead  of  the  worst  of 
things.  Well,  I  suppose  I  must  accept  the  sacrifice.  I  could  not  go 
away  and  leave  the  girls  happily.  I  am  not  quite  comfortable  about 
Bee;  she  docs  not  seem  in  her  usual  spirits." 

"  I  was  thinking  the  same  myself." 

"  And  yet  how  pretty  she  is!  No  wonder  she  gels  so  much  attention-, 
one  seldom  sees  a  prettier  girl  anywhere.  Launce,  I  don't  quite  like 
tdl king  of  such  things  even  to  you,  but  do  you  think  Mr.  Hamblyn 
really  admires  her?" 

"  I  am  afraid  he  admires  any  pretty  face.  lie  is  a  terrible  flirt.  Even 
his  sister  owned  that.  I  never  did  like  the  Hamblyn  connection,  only 
my  opinion  is  in  the  minority." 

"  But  they  are  very  well-bred  young  people,  Launce,  and  Oscar  Ham- 
tlyn  is  a  most  striking- looking  man.  I  am  sure  in  good  looks  he  would 
match  our  Bee." 

*'  That  is  the  way  you  women  talk.  What  have  looks  to  do  with  it, 
Madella?  It  seems  to  me  there  are  other  and  far  more  important  ques- 
tions to  be  asked  before  we  permit  any  man  to  pay  his  addresses  to  one 
of  our  girls.  Do  you  think  young  Hamblyn  is  well  principled?  I  will 
undertake  to  say  that  he  has  a  decided  temper,  his  private  means  are 
small,  and  he  is  young  in  his  profession.  I  should  think  it  would  be 
years  before  he  could  afford  to  keep  a  wife." 

"  Yes,  but  Bee  is  so  young,  there  could  be  no  harm  in  their  waiting. 


108 

And  then  slip  lias  a  little  money  of  her  own/.l  urged  Mrs.  Chudleigh, 

•who  could  not   find  it  in  her  heart  to  he  hard  on  so  handsome  a   \ 
ni:in.      Oscar  Ilamblyn's  dark  olive  complexion  and  inelaiicho] 
generally  made  an   impression   on  women,  and  it  could   not    be  denied 
that  his 'manners  were  very  distinguished,  however  exacting  and  hrita- 
ble  he  might  be  in  the  family  circle. 

Launeelot  was  tempted  to  retort  rather  impatiently,  but  lie   forbore, 
and  answered,  mildly,  "  Yes,  no  doubt  they  would  have  enough  to  pro- 
vide bread  and  cheese,  but  JIamblyn  is  the  sort  of  man  who  has  been 
used  to  champagne  and  oysters— you  know  what  I  mean,     lie  would 
settle  down  comfortably  on  small  means.     How  do  you  know  ho 
is   not,  in   debt  now?     Madella,  I  have  often  told  you  that  you   are   not 
worldly  wi>e.     Xow,  I  intend  to  look  after  IJee.  pretty  sharply.     Ham 
blyn  comes  here  far  too  often,     lie  is  hanging  about  most  Saturdays, 
with  or  without  his  sister,  and  I  notice  he  monopolizes  Bee.     Bee  will 
i  piece  of  my  mind  if  this  goes  on." 

"  Oh,  Launce,  you  will  not  be  hard  on  the  poor  girl.     Supposing  "- 
and  here  she  actually  blushed  as  though  she  were  a  girl  too—"  suppos- 
ing she  is  beginning' to  care  for  him?" 

"  For  Heaven's  sake  don't  let  us  suppose  anything  so  distressing!  ' 
returned  Launeelot,  in  such  an  alarmed  voice  that  his  step- mother  smiled; 
"  there  is  trouble  enough  without  that."  And  then  he  added,  hastily, 
"  You  may  trust  me  to  look  after  my  sisters.  I  shall  be  as  lynx-eyed  in 
any  old  woman.  Miss  Beatrix  will  have  to  mind  her  behavior.  1  shall 
ul  when  these  Saturdays  arc  at  an  end.  They  bring  a  lot  of  idle 
young  fellows  about  the  place.  I  wish  Bee  were  more  like  Pauline. 
Paul  will  never  give  us  any  trouble." 

"  Xo,  indeed,  she  is  a  dear  girl,"  replied  her  mother,  fondly,  who, 
indeed,  could  see  no  faults  in  her  daughters.  In  her  secret  heart  she 
thought  Launce  was  rather  hard  on  Bee.  "I  am  so  glad  you  approve 
of  her  intimacy  with  the  Maxwells.  She  goes  t\vo  or  three  times  a  week 
to  sit  with  that  poor  invalid." 

"  Oli,  she  will  get  nothing  but  good  there.  I  like  every  member  of 
the  family;"  and  if  Lauucelot,  in  his  enthusiasm  for  honest  merit  and 
Iterling  worth,  was  just  a  little  short-sighted  in  this  matter,  even  the 
wisest,  mortal  is  liable  to  error. 

IJeo,  in  her  willfulness  and  girlish  vanity,  must  be  watched  and 
guarded  most  sedulously,  but  it  never  entered' into  either  Launeelot .'s  or 
.Mrs.  Chudleigh's  head  that  Pauline,  in  spite  of  her  good  sense  and  ab- 
sence of  coquetry,  was  a  young,  attractive  girl,  and  that  there  might  be 
po-sible  risks  in  such  frequent  visits  to  a  house  where  the  master  was 
unmarried  and  in  the  prime  of  his  useful  and  energetic  life. 

Granted  tint  Dr.  Maxwell  was  far  too  busy  a  man  to  be  found  idling 
about  his  mother's  drawing- room,  and  that  a  few  minutes'  conversation 
was  all  that  ever  passed  between  them  at  Bridge  House,  still  then 
danger  of  a  more  subtle  kind  to  be  apprehended  when  the  son  and  broth- 
er was  the  hero  and  idol  of  a  household  of  adoring  women.  Pauline 
might  have  wearied  of  dear  lledley's  praises,  of  anecdotes  of  his  \\on- 

!  boyhood  from  his  mother  and  Aunt  Myra,  down  to  Uremia' 
Charlotte's,  and  even   Prissy's  loudly  utteied  encomiums  on  ins  profes- 
Monai  -  wisdom  in  dealing  with  his  patients,  his  ext.raor 

dinary  fortitude  and  good  temper.      Perhaps  it  might  have  been  well  if 
Pauline  had  imitated  15ee  and  laughed  at  the  family  egotism,  instead  of 
ing  with  increased  interest  an  Pauline  .^ix.-w  to  believe 

at  lust  that  the  two  best  men  in  the  world  were  Launc«lot  and  I  >r. 


OJSTLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  199 

.well;  nay,  she  even  secretly  gave  Dr.  Maxwell  the  palm,  as  the  more 
sorely  tried  hero  of  the  two.  Not  that  she  hinted  this  even  to  her  crony 
Charlotte,  but  her  eyes  brightened  as  the  fond  women  talked.  And 
when  Dr.  Maxwell  interrupted  them  with  one  of  his  flying  visits,  the 
.sight  of  thy  doctor's  dark,  irregular  features  and  deep-set  eyes  would 
bring  a  pretty  pink  color  to  her  fresh  girlish  cheek,  as  she  sat  demure 
and  quiet  by  Brenda's  couch. 

Dr.  Maxwell  liked  to  see  her  there,  though  he  treated  her  as  his  sis- 
ters' friend,  and  made  no  attempt  to  linger  in  her  pleasant  company. 
Still  his  shake  of  the  hand  was  always  cordial,  and  his  "  How  are  you 
all  at  the  Witchens,  Miss  Chudleigh?"  was  spoken  with  frank  kindness. 

Often,  as  she  sat  alone  writing,  during  his  brief  afternoon's  rest,  he 
could  hear  the  girls'  chatter  and  Pauline's  musical  laugh. 

"  1  low  happy  they  seem!  Poor  Uremia  has  got  a  friend  at  last  to  suit 
her,"  he  would  think,  and  his  brotherly  gratitude  showed  itself  by  in- 
creased courtesy  and  attention  to  Paidine  when  he  paid  one  o'f  his  rare 
visits  to  the  Witcheus. 

"  How  good  you  are  to  Brenda!"  he  would  say;  "you  are  putting 
fresh  brightness  into  that  poor  girl's  life.  You  have  no  idea  how  she 
looks  forward  to  your  visits,  it  is  such  a  relief  to  Charlotte.  The  other 
chiy,  when  I  got  home  they  were  all  singing  your  praises.  I  think  Aunt 
Myra's  voice  was  the  loudest." 

"  1  don't  deserve  any  credit:  it,  is  for  my  own  pleasure  that  I  go  to 
Bridge  House,"  Pauline  would  reply,  with  sturdy  honest)'.  Neverthe- 
-•lie  blushed  a  little.  "  I  am  very  fond  of  "your  sisters,  and  now 
Mrs.  Thorpe  has  left  us  I  feel  rather  lonely." 

"  Oli,  yes,  you  were  great  friends  with  her  too." 

"  Yes,  Iluldah  was  very  nice,  and  of  course  I  am  fond  of  her  still,  but 
we  can  never  be  quite  the  same  friends  now.  I  am  afraid  I  am  a  little 
hard,  Doctor  Maxwell,  but  1  am  so  sorry  when  people  disappoint  me, 
when  they  are  not  quite  what  I  think  them.  Iluldah  disappointed  me. 
and  I  don't  feel  that  I  can  be  the  same  to  her.  Launce  and  even  moth- 
er think  I  am  wrong,  but  one  must  act  up  to  one's  nature." 

"  I  do  not  think  you  are  wrong;  it  is  your  youth  that  is  in  fault. 
When  you  are  older  you  will  learn  to  be  more  lenient  to  people's  mis- 
takes," and  as  Dr.  Maxwell  looked  down  at  the  girl's  bright,  ingenuous 
face,  he  thought  it  would  be  a  pity  if  the  bitter  experience  of  life  were 
ever  to  induce  her  to  lower  her  standard.  He  liked  her  unflinching 
honesty  and  love  of  truth,  even  her  youthful  intolerance  and  want  of 
charity  were  venial  sins  in  his  eyes.  She  would  never  disappoint  any 
one,  he  told  himself.  Happy  the  man  who  could  win  the  love  of  that 
fresh  young  heart.  And  then  lie  gave  a  quick,  impatient  sigh,  and  went 
off  in  search  of  Launcclot,  while  Pauline  looked  after  him  wistfully, 
and  wished  she  were  clever  like  Brenda  or  Charlotte,  that  she  might 
keep  him  by  her  side.  "  He  likes  to  talk  to  Launce  best,"  she  thought, 
regretfully,  not  dreaming  in  her  modesty  that  Dr.  Maxwell  was  begin- 
ning to  find  a  dangerous  magnetism  in  those  brown  eyes. 

Mrs.  Chudleigh  was  quite  satisfied  to  leave  her  girls  under  their 
brother's  guardianship.  She  went  away  quite  happily  the  next  day, 
and  was  received  rapturously  by  her  young  son. 

"  Now  I  shall  have  you  all  to  myself,  mother,"  was  Freckles's  greet- 
ing, as  she  bent  over  his  pillow,  "  and  none  of  those  other  fellows,  not 
even  Launce,  will  get  you.  I  didn't  want  Susan.  Susan  is  a  duffer. 
I  shall  not  take  my  medicine  from  any  one  but  you.  So  look  out, 
mother," 


200  OXl.Y     THK     (inVKUN! 


cklos  was  Freckles,  in  spite  of  the  measles.     ITi>  A\ 
nal  patient,  ami  kept  his  doctor  in  tits  of  laughing.     The  be 
choly  eyes  ami  lackadaisical  invalid  airs  and  his  droll  speech* 
much  for  his  professional  gravity. 

"  Are  your  other  sons  like  this  one,  Mrs.  Chudleigh?"  he 

we  are  an  awful  lot,"  replied  Freckles,  "but  we  don't  lake 
after  mother.  You  should  just  see  my  eldest  brother,  sir,  he  i>  a  terri- 
ble fellow  for  practical  joke's—  all  artists  arc.  They  say  the  smell  of  the 
paiot  and  too  much  art  gets  into  their  brain.  They  are  obliged  to  j'md 
a  vent  somehow.  '' 

"Fied,  my  dttir  boy,  how  can  you  talk  such  nonsense  about  your 
brother—  Launee,  too,  who  is  like  a  father  to  you  all?     What  wil! 
tnr  Mallin  think?" 

11  That  I  must  change  this  fellow's  incdicinc  or  he  will  get  too  much 
for  us;"  but  Freckles  only  rolled  his  head  on  the  pillow,  and  looked  at 
the  doctor  reproachfully. 

"  1  don't  suppose  you   believe  in  your  drugs,"  he  said,  with  apparent 
simplicity,  *"  but  it  would  not  look  professional  not  to  order  something. 
(  )f  course,  Susan  can  throw  it  away,  so  don't  mind  sending  it;  medicine, 
like  affection,  never  is  wasted.     Shall  I  show  you  my  parody  on   I 
fellow's  lines,  sir?" 

"  Confound  you,  sir,  for  a  young  jackanapes!"  returned  Dr.  Mallin, 
shaking  his  fist  at  this  incorrigible  patient,  but  he  went  off  grinning. 

"  Now  we  have  got  rid  of  him,  mother,  we  will  go  on  with  '  Monte- 
Oristo,  '  "  observed  Freckles,  coolly;  "  and  I  won't  have  a  word  skipped, 
mind.  The  more  horrors  the  more  I  shall  enjoy  myself,  and  so  will 
Susan,"  with  a  wink  at  that  respectable  young  woman.  Poor  Susan  red- 
dened, but  she  dared  not  contradict  her  young  tyrant.  "  Monte  Cristo  " 
gave  her  bad  dreams  of  a  night;  she  thrilled  with  horror  as  she  listened 
to  it.  "I  don't  think  it  is  quite  a  nice  book,  Fred,"  his  mother  would 
say;  "  I  never  did  like  French  novels,"  but  Freckles  always  overruled 
her  scruples. 

'  '  It  is  a  splendid  book.  Just  you  wait  until  Monte  Cristo  pays  them 
all  out,  that  will  curdle  your  blood  for  you,  page  250  —  you  rememl 
made  you  turn  down  the  leaf.     Now  then,  attention,  Susan;  you  can 
lire  away,  mother,"  and  Freckles  thumped  his  pillow  with  antici] 
enjoyment,  and  composed  himself  to  listen. 

But  in  spite  of  Mrs.  Chudleigh's  dislike  to  her  son's  choice  of  litera- 
'ure,  and  a  few  minor  drawbacks  of  this  kind,  her  duties  were  far 
lighter  and  more  enjoyable  than  Launcelot's  in  his  character  as  guard- 
ian to  two  pretty  girls. 

On  the  whole,  Mrs.  Chudleigh  enjoyed  her  present  life.  She  was  an 
excellent  nurse,  and  never  showed  to  better  advantage  than  in  a  sick- 
room. Her  rough  school  boy  had  never  been  dependent  on  her  since  his 
babyhood,  and  she  was  almost  ready  to  indorse  Freckles's  remark, 
"  that  if  it  were  not  for  the  horrid  rash,  and  the  doctor's  stuff,"  here 
Freckles  added  an  adjective  more  strong  than  graceful,  he  should  think 
the  measles  were  awfully  jolly  things.  For  Freckles  in  his  way  was 
having  a  good  time  of  it.  In  his  boyish  heart  he  doted  on  his  mother, 
though  torture  would  not  have  induced  him  to  confess  as  much,  and  to 
be  the  object  of  her  sole  care  and  petting,  to  have  his  every  wish  grati- 
fied, and  to  lay  his  commands  on  her  and  Susan  indiscriminate!;, 
such  a  novel  state  of  affairs  and  so  plensing  to  his  boyish  pride  that 
Freckles  would  have  extended  his  coir.  indefinitely,  but  for 

the  delightful  prospect  of  a  fortnight  at  Eastbourne.     Things  were  not 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS. 

progressing  quite  so  favorably  at  the  Witoliens,  although  Launcelot, 
with  an  unselfishness  that  few  men  would  have  shown  under  the  cir- 
cumstances, had  shunted  off  his  weight  of  heavy  sadness  into  the  back- 
ground and  exerted  himself  to  be  agreeable  to  his  sisters. 

But  Bee  showed  herself  decidedly  ungrateful.  She  was  clever  enough 
to  read  between  the  lines;  she  saw  she  was  under  surveillance,  and 
chose  to  resent  it.  She  even  made  objections  when  Launcelot  invited 
her  to  ride  with  him,  although  she  knew  he  would  get  his  way  in  the 
end. 

"You  had  better  ask  Pauline,"  she  would  say;  "I  am  very  busy 
this  morning." 

"  So  is  Pauline,  extremely  busy;  besides,  she  has  to  walk  with  the 
children."  For  Pauline,  with  ready  helpfulness,  had  installed  herself 
in  Joan's  place  until  another  governess  could  be  found,  and  was  raiher 
enjoying  her  new  position.  It  gave  her  a  sense  of  importance  to  say  to 
Charlotte,  "  I  am  in  sole  charge  of  Sybil  and  Dossie,  and  they  did  all 
their  lessons  with  me.  I  am  afraid  I  shall  not  be  able  to  see  Bronchi 
quite  so  often  until  mother  comes  back."  Charlotte  would  repeat  her 
words  probably  in  her  brother's  presence,  and  he  would  see  that  she 
was  not  quite  useless. 

"I  don't  think  I  feel  inclined  to  ride,"  returned  Bee,  assuming  a 
languid  air,  though  her  blooming  complexion  contradicted  her  words; 
but  Launcelot  merely  smiled  at  this  lame  excuse  and  ordered  the 
horses,  and  Bee  retired  to  put  on  her  habit  in  rather  a  sulky  frame  of 
mind. 

Another  time,  when  he  rallied  her  gently  on  her  want  of  spirits,  to 
his  great  astonishment  she  turned  the  tables  on  him. 

"  I  don't  think  that  is  quite  fair,  Launce,"  she  said,  firing  up  at  once. 
"  You  are  as  grave  as  a  judge  yourself,  and  yet  you  talk  of  my  dull- 
ness. Nora  was  only  saying  the  other  day  that  she  never  saw  any  one 
so  altered;  she  was  quite  sure  you  were  out  of  health,  or  had  had  some- 
thing to  worry  you." 

"Miss  Hamblyn  does  me  too  much  honor  by  condescending  to  take 
notice  of  my  looks,"  returned  Launcelot,  sarcastically;  and  then  he 
walked  off  much  displeased,  leaving  Bee  mistress  of  the  situation.  This 
sort  of  speech  hurt  him  cruelly;  no  old  Roman  ever  drew  his  toga  more 
sternly  over  his  death- wound  than  Launcelot  tried  to  hide  his  inward 
pain.  Suffer?  of  course  he  must  suffer,  but  why  should  any  prying 
human  eye  take  note  of  the  fact? 

One  morning  he  was  riding  in  the  empty  Row  with  Bee;  they  had 
just  been  enjoying  a  delicious  canter,  when  Launcelot  proposed  they 
should  draw  up  under  the  trees  for  a  few;  moments  to  rest  Bee's  mare, 
as  she  looked  a  little  hot.  Bee  was  in  a  better  temper  this  morning, 
and  had  been  laughing  and  talking  in  her  old  way,  but  all  at  once  she 
became  very  quiet,  and  Launcelot's  last  remark  remained  unanswered, 
and  on  glancing  round  to  know  the  cause  he  saw  her,  with  heightened 
color  and  an  uneasy  expression  on  her  face,  looking  after  a  tall  gentle- 
man who  was  walking  down  the  path  with  a  lady. 

"  That  was  Hamblyn,  was  it  not,  Bee?" 

"  Yes,"  she  returned,  looking  still  more  uneasy.  "  I  bowed  to  him, 
but  he  did  not  seern  to  recognize  me.  Did  you  see  who  was  walking 
with  him?" 

"  A  fair  young  lady,  I  think,  but  I  hardly  saw  her  face.  I  dare  say 
lie  was  not  looking  at  us,  Bee;  1  often  cut  ladies  of  my  acquaintance  in 
that  way,"  and  he  changed  the  subject,  for  it  was  just  possible  thai 


ITamhlyn  had  rccoLMii/ed  them,  and  that  ho  was  ashamed  of  his 
companion.  "  I  never  had  any  opinion  of  him,"  thought,  l.auneelot, 
"and  I  confess  1  do  not  like  tiie  look  of  this,"  hat  on  this  point  ho 
wronged  ( )sear. 

did  not  reeovcr  herself  all  day,  and  in  the  evening  Lanneelot 
questioned  Pauline. 

Pauline  ai  ilicr  reluctantly — 

"  1  think  -he  is  rather  put.  out  with  Mr.  Hamblyn.     She  is  certain  he 
saw  her,  for  their  eyes  met.  but  he  turned  away  and  spoke  to  soin. 
who  was  walking  with  him.     1  do  wish  she  did  not  think  so  much 
about  the  llamblyns,  Launce." 

-  >  do  I,  with  all  my  heart,."  hut  he  said  no  more  at  that  time.  But 
when  Saturday  afternoon  eame.  and  brought.  Miss  Jlamhlyn  and  her 
mother,  he  kept  a  close  watch  on  Px-e's  movements.  And  h«- 
became  aware  of  a  by-play  iroiiii;  on  between  her  and  Mr.  Hamblyn. 
Bee  was  decidedly  on  her  dignity,  and  kept  him  at  a  distan.-e;  she 
would  not  understand  his  hints  and  implied  apologies,  she  left  him  to 
himself  and  occupied  herself  with  her  other  guests,  looking  v< T\  ivde 
and  pretty.  It  was  plain,  however,  that  Oscar  was  not  to  be  rebull'ed; 
he  followed  her  boldly  from  place  to  place,  watching  his  opportunity 
and  in  the  end  achieving  his  purpose.  Poor  little  girl!  with  all  her  will- 
fulness and  dignified  airs,  she  was  no  match  for  Oscar's  determination. 

Just  as  evening  was  drawing  in  and  most  of  the  people  had 
Launcelot  walked  briskly  down  the  path  to  the  terrace,  congratulating 
himself  that  this  was  the  last  of  Bee's  Saturdays,  when  lie  was  sud- 
denly pulled  up  by  hearing  Oscar  Haniblyn's  voice  close  to  him,  ami  a 
moment  afterward  Bee's  answering  him. 

The  speakers  were  evidently  on   one  of   the   shrubbery  scats,  and 
another  few  steps  would  bring  him  face  to  face  with  them  as  he  p 
uncertain  whether  to  disturb  the  /  a  few  words  reached  his 

and  he  hastily  beat  a  retreat.     Launcelot  was  looking  very  tierce 
and  angry  by  the  time  he  reached  the  house.     Pauline  and"  Miss'  Ham- 
blyn and  Bernard  were  standing  at  the  drawing-room,  window.   L 
.lied  out  to  his  brother — 

"  Bear,  I  wish  you  would  look  for  Bee;  I  fancy  she  and  Mr.  Ilamblyn 
are  near  the  terrace.  It  is  quite  time  for  her  to  come  in,"  and  Bernard 
went  off  whistling. 

"  How  dare  that  fellow  make  love  to  my  sister  in  this  clandestine 
fashion?"  said  Launceiot  to  himself;  "does  he  think  this  will  prepos- 
lim  in  our  favor?     I  will  .stand  no  more  nonsense.     I  will  talk  lc 
Bee  to-night.      What  a  blessing  Madella  is  awayl  she  would  spoil  e 
thing.     She  never  will  believe  Bee  can  be  in  the  wrong." 

Launcelot's  manner  was  decidedly  stiff  when  he  said  good-bye  to  Hit 
Hamblyns.  Bee  looked  at  him  wistfully  in  the  hope  that  he  would  in- 
vite them  to  stay.  "  It  is  our  last  Saturday!"  she  said,  regretfully. 

"  Of  course  it  is  the  last;  what  is  the  use  of  keeping  them  on  when 
one  is  away?     You  have  had  one  too  many  now?"  observed  her 
brother,  coolly.     "Bear,  will  you  see  if  the  brougham  is  there?"  and 
Bear,  who  Inul  a  grudge  airainst  Miss  Hamblyn  on  his  own  a< 
1  his  errand  with  promptitude. 

"  You   will  come  and  see  us.  dear,  will    you  j 

affectionately  to  her  friend.     "  Come  on   Wednesday;  mamma  ami   I 
will  be  quite  alone." 

"  Oh,  not   Wednesday1     I  will   have  an  engagement  for  tha' 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  203 

noon,"  returned  Oscar,  in  a  low  voice,  and  Bee  flashed  a  look  at  him 
and  then  bluslred  very  prettily. 

"  Very  well,  if  you  are  good  then,"  iti  answer  to  another  whisper, 
and  then  followed  a  prolonged  shake  of  the  hand. 

Launeelot  was  a  little  short  with  his  sisters  that  evening;  he  scolded 
]>(•(•  for  being  lute  for  dinner,  but  she  answered  him  amiably.  Pauline 
and  Hear  exchanged  glances  of  consternation  when  Launeelot  found 
fault  with  the  salad.  "  I  shall  be  glad  when  your  mother  comes  back," 
ill,  reproachfully  to  Bee;  "  she  always  looks  after  this  sort  of  thing, 
but  nothing  is  comfortable  in  her  absence." 

"  I  tell  you  what,  Mrs.  Fenwick,  there  is  a  screw  loose  somewhere, 
or  master  'would  not  be  so  uncommon  cross.  I  never  heard  him  rind 
fault  with  anything  on  the  table  before.  "Why,  the  salad  never  was 
better." 

"  Cross!"  returned  his  wife,  raising  her  eyebrows,  "  why,  Femvick, 
you  might  as  well  tell  me  that  that  blessed  baby  "—pointing  to  a  plump 
infant  in  pink  bows  belonging  to  the  gardener's  cottage,  who  was  trying 
to  swallow  his  dimpled  tNt — "  w.-:.  \Vho  has  a  right  to  find 

fault  with  the  salad,  or  anything  else,  if  it  is  not  our  young  master,  bless 
him?"  and  .Mrs.  Fenwick,  who  was  a  devout  believer  in  Launeelot's 
virtues,  bustled  about  in  irate  fashion  after  her  husband's  injudicious 
ii.  "  Cross,  indeed!  who  ever  heard  the  like?"  she  muttered  as 
she  took  the  baby  out  of  the  cot  and  carried  him  home  to  his  mother. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

THEN  YOl      \  i:D  TO  HIM?" 

A  woman  does  m>t  like  a  man  k-.ss  for  having  many  favorites,  if  he  deserts  them 
all  for  her:  she  fancies  that  she  heiv  P  of  fixing;  the  wanderer;  that 

oilier  women  conquer  like  the  1'artiiians,  but  that  she  herself ,  like  the  Romans,  can 
ly  make  conquests,  but  retain  them.— COLTON. 

•  >ME  on  the  terrace,  Paul,  while  I  smoke  a  cigarette,"  observed 
Bear,  aU'ably,  and  the  two  marched  off  arm  in  arm.  Bee,  who  was 
turning  over  her  music  on  the  grand  piano-forte,  looked  after  them  wist- 
fully, as  though  she  were  inclined  to  follow  them.  Perhaps  Launeelot 
would  not  care  for  music  this  evening,  he  looked  decidedly  glum;  any- 
how, she  did  not  want  to  remain  in  his  society.  He  had  been  very  still' 
and  disagreeable  with  her  "friends,  and  had  found  fault  with  her  for 
nothing  at  all.  She  wished  her  mother  would  come  back  if  things  were 
to  be  like  this;  and  Bee  tossed  her  pretty  head,  unseen  as  she  thought, 
and  walked  with  the  air  of  a  princess  to  the  window. 

"Beatrix,  I  want  to  speak  to  you."  Bee  started.  Latince  never 
called  her  Beatrix  unless  he  was  going  to  reprimand  her  about  some- 
thing 

"Well,"  she  said,  pettishly,  "what  is  it  now?  I  hope  you  are  not 
going  to  talk  about  the  salad  again?" 

"  No,"  he  returned,  quietly,  "  I  have  something  far  more  important 
to  say.  Please  come  away  from  the  window,  unless  you  want  Fenwick 
and  Orson  to  hear  us."  Then  she  came  back  into  the  room  with  rather 
a  disconcerted  air. 

"  You  seem  cross  about  something,  Launce." 

"  ISuvnot  cross,  only  seriously  disturbed.  Bee,  my  dear,  I  want  you 
to  be  perfectly  frank  with  me.  It  will  be  the  only  course  for  you. 
As  vour  elder  brother  standing  to  ygij.  in  the  position  of  a  guardian  I 


204  OXLY    i  i:ss. 

purely  have  a  riglit  to  know  the-  exact  state  of  things  between  you  and 
Mr.  ilamblyn.'^ 

"What  do  you   mean?"  she  asked,   in   rather   a    frightened    voice. 
Then  she  plucked  up  a  little  spirit,  and  held  her  head  very  high, 
don't  think  you  have  the  right  to  put  such  a  question  to  inc.      You  arc 
very  unkind   about   the  lianiblyns,  Launee.     You  are  always  finding 
fault  with  my  friends,  and  Nora  is  my  intimate  friend." 

"  Is  her  brother  your  intimate  friend  too?"  Then  "Bee  looked  con- 
fused. "  He  is  either  your  intimate  friend  or  your  lover.  Tell  me  the 
truth,  have  you  engaged  yourself  to  him?"  Then  the  girl  became 
very  pale. 

"No.  Launee."  Then  very  indignantly,  "I  think  your  questions 
are  insulting;  you  have  no  right  to  speak  to  me  like  this.'  I  would  only 
allow  my  mother  to  say  such  things  to  me." 

"  Your  mother  is  not  here,  but  it'  she  were,  what  would  she  ha\ 
to  that  conversation  of  yours  with  Oscar  Hamhlyn  in  the  shrublx 

"  What  do  you  mean?"  .she  gasped,  but  her  eyes  dropped  before  his. 
"  Oh,  Launcelot,  surely  you  were  not  so  dishonorable  as  to  lis 

He  let  that  affront  pass  quietly,  for  he  saw  she  was  really  frightened 
now,  and  he  wished  not  to  estrange  her,  but  to  win  her  confidence 

"  I  don't  think  '  dishonor  '  and  I  have  ever  shaken  hands,  Bee.  Still, 
as  you  appear  to  doubt  me,  let  me  tell  you  what  I  really  heard — 

"  Oh,  no!  no!"— trying  to  stop  him,  but  Launcelot  quietly  continued 
Lis  speech. 

"  On  my  way  to  the  terrace,  I  thought  I  lieard  voices  in  the  sli  rub- 
bery. They  were  yours  and  Mr.  Ilamblyn's;  and  as  I  hesitated  for  a 
moment,  not  knowing  whether  to  go  on  and  disturb  an  interesting 

or  to  turn  back,  I  lieard  Mr.  ITamblyn  say — excuse  me,  Bee, "hut  [ 
intend  to  repeat  %the  words — '  You  are  so  jealous,  my  darling!  You 
will  never  allow  a  poor  fellow  to  amuse  himself  in  your  absence.  : 
what  harm  could  there  be  in  my  taking  a  walk  with  my  cousin?'  '  Was 
she  really  your  cousin,  Oscar?'  'Of  course  she  was,  my  pet!' — and 
here  I  turned  on  my  heel  and  marched  off  in  disgust.  Now,  Beatrix, 
answer  me  fairly;  do  you  not  think,  as  your  guardian,  I  have  a  ri^ht  to 
question  the  wisdom  of  your  conduct  when  you  allow  that  fell, 
call  you  '  darling  '  and  I  know  not  what  besides?"  But  Bee,  who  had 
changed  from  white  to  red  during  her  brother's  speech,  interrupted  him 
with  an  attempt  at  dignity. 

"  Don't  go  on,  Launee;  there  was  nothing  wrong  in  Oscar's  speaking 
to  me  like  that — lie — \ve — love  eacL  other." 

11  Has  he  told  you  so?" 

"  Yea,"  hanging  her  Lead,  but  looking  so  sweet  and  pretty  in  her 
maidenly  confusion  that  Launcelot,  who  had  worked  himself  into  a 
white  heat,  fairly  groaned  with  impotent  rage  at  "the  impertinent 
scoundrel,"  as  he  called  him. 

"  May  I  ask  when  Le  informed  you  of  this  interesting  fact?" 

"  Oh,  Launcelot!"     And  now  her  eyes  were  full  of  ; 

"  I  S€e  you  consfder  me  brutal,  and  I  own  1  never  felt  - 
my  life.     I  think  it  will  be  be.*  to  answer  me  quite  frankly:  when' did 
Mr.  Hamblyn  speak  to  you  first?" 

"  Do  you  mean  when  did  he  tell  me  Le  was  fond  of  me?    Tlw 
ing  we  went  to  the  Albert  Hall." 


"  TLen  you  are  engaged  to  him?" 
"  No-  oh,  no!" 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  205 

"  Indeed!  I  don't  understand.  I  should  have  thought,  judging 
from  those  terms  of  endearment,  that  you  were  his  flair 

"  No  " — rather  sorrowfully,  "  O*car  is  very  unhappy  because  he  sees 
no  prospect  of  our  engagement  for  a  long  time.  That  is  why  he  has 
not  spoken  to  you;  he  says  he  has  nothing  to  offer.  But  I  tell  him  I 
shall  not  mind  waiting  as  long  as  I  know  he  is  fond  of  me,  and  that  we 
understand  each  other." 

"  It  did  not  much  look  like  understanding  each  other  in  the  park  the 
other  morning."  Then  Bee  looked  rather  foolish. 

"Of  course  I  was  silly  about  that.  I  ought  not  to  have  suspected 
him." 

"Well,  there  are  cousins  and  cousins.  Did  he  tell  you  the  young 
lady's  name?" 

"  Vcs.it  was  his  cousin  Erica — Erica  Stewart.  Such  a  plain  little 
thing,  and  two  or  three  years  older  than  <  > 

"  Certainly  you  might  have  given  him  the  benefit  of  the  doubt,  but 
now  I  want  you  to  tell  me  exactly  what  passed  between  you  both.     You 
were  his  mother's  guest,  remember,  and  of  all  places  he  hud  no  right  to 
k  to  3'ou  under  her  roof." 

"He  never  meant  to  speak,"  she  returned,  eagerly,  and  it  struck 
Launcelot  that  it  was  rather  a  relief  to  her  that  the  truth  should  be 
known.  "  Poor  little  girl,  she  is  really  open  by  nature,"  he  thought, 
"  but  lie  has  persuaded  her  to  hold  her  tongue  for  his  own  purpo 
and  his  manner  softened  imperceptibly,  for  he  could  not  long  remain 
stern  in  the  face  of  her  distress.  "  lie  never  meant  to  betray  his  1'eel- 
"  continued  Bee;  "  but  we  were  alone,  and  then  he  spoke,  lie  said 
IK;  knew  he  was  wrong,  but  he  cared  so  much  for  me  that  he  could  not 
lie  Inppy  until  he  knew  whether  his  affections  were  returned." 

"  1  suppose  you  contented  him  on  that  point?" 

"  Oh,  yes.  I  have  never  seen  any  one  to  compare  with  Oscar,  and  it 
made  me  quite  happy  to  know  he  cared  for  me;  and  then  he  looked  sad, 
liecause  he  said  that  there  could  be  no  engagement  between  us  at  pres- 
ent; that  he  could  not  speak  to  you,  because  he  had  nothing  to  offer; 
that  he  was  in  debt,  though  not  very  deeply;  and  that  it  could  only  be  a 
mutual  understanding  between  us." 

"  But,  Bee,  is  it  possible  that  you  could  consent  to  such  an  arrange- 
ment without  consulting  us?  What  will  your  mother  say  when  she 
knows  that  you  have  acted  in  this  clandestine  manner?" 

"  I  wanted  to  tell  mother  dreadfully,  but  Oscar  said  that  it  would 
place  him  in  such  an  awkward  position.  He  did  seem  so  troubled, 
poor  fellow,  and  so  afraid  that  you  might  interfere,  and  prevent  us  see- 
ing each  other,  and  he  said  that  would  make  him  so  miserable." 

"  Of  course  he  was  thinking  of  himself,  not  you.  That  proves  his 
selfishness.  Now,  Bee,  you  need  not  fire  up.  You  must  bear  to  hear 
the  truth.  An  honorable  man,  even  if  he  had  been  carried  away  by 
his  feelings,  and  had  betrayed  himself,  would  at  least  have  atoned  for 
his  fault  by  an  honest  declaration  of  his  affection  to  either  your  mother 
or  me,  and  then  would  have  abided  by  our  decision.  And  I  must  say 
I  think  it  a  mean  and  ungentlemanly  action  to  take  advantage  of  our 
hospitality  to  entangle  the  affections  of  an  inexperienced  girl,  and  to 
draw  her  into  this  clandestine  connection.  I  do  not  think  it  promises 
well  for  your  future  happiness,  Bee." 

"  You  speak  as  though  I  were  a  raw  school-girl,"  returned  Bee, 
angril}-.  "  Y^ou  forget  that  I  have  been  out  two  seasons,  that  I  could 
have  married  before  if  I  liked." 


206  ONLY    Till:  KSS. 

• 

'  Indeed,  I  do  not  forget,  my  dear,  that  you  rejected  nil  h< 
(nave  young  fellow,  .1  gentleman  every  inch  ut'  him,'  who  would 
made  his  wife  a  happy  woman;  bull  beg  your  pardon,  he  h;id  red  h;dr. " 

"  Nonsense.  Lauiice,  as  though  that  made  me  refuse  him!  but  ho\v 
can  you  mention  Sydney  Ulvcrton  and  Oscar  in  oi;> 

"  '\\'hy,  indeed,  it  is  like  weighing  solid  gold  and  tinsel  together.    Oh, 

ny  child,  how  can  women  be  so  blind  and  foolish!     You  h;r 
dowcd  Mr.  Hamblyn  with  virtues  he  will  never  pi 

a  handsome  face  and  good  manners  and  knows  how  to  Hatter  a  pretty 
girl.     I  do  not  say  that  even   Oscar  Hamblyn  has  not  got  his 
points.  Heaven  forbid!  but  this  I  do  say,  that  your  lover 
imperfect  mortal;  that  he  is  both  conceited  and  selfish;  that  he  hi 
travagant  tastes  and  no  means  to  gratify  them;  that  his  honor 

is  HOIK;  of  the  iinest,  and  that  if  you  ever  marry  him,  it  will  be  with  a 
heavy  heart  that  I  shall  give  j-ou  away." 

This  speech,  uttered  with  much  gravity,  effectually  sobered  poor 
Bee.  It  was  dreadful  to  think  that  these  were  really  Launcelot's  senti- 
ments, but,  of  course,  he  was  prejudiced.  Oscar  had  once  told  her  that 
her  brother  was  a  man  of  strong  prejudices,  and  she  was  inclined  to  be- 
lieve him.  He  must  be  wrong  about  her  poor  Oscar.  No  doubt  h 
his  faults  like  other  young  men,  but  he  was  so  fond  of  her  that  she 
would  be  able  to  guide  him.  Bee  was  not  quite  sure  in  her  own  mind 
that  she  liked  young  men  to  be  goody-goody.  A  little  spice  of  inde- 
pendence and  pride— Bee  would  not  "add  devilry — seemed  natural  to 
them;  and  then  what  a  lover  he  was!  How  could  any  girl  resist  such  a 
Prince  Charming? 

15ee  looked  up  very  piteously  at  her  brother  with  her  pretty  eyes  full 
of  tears.  "  You  will  not  separate  us,  Launce?"  she  said,  timidly.  "  It 
is  too  late  to  undo  things  now.  and  it  would  break  my  heart  to  part 
from  Oscar." 

"  I  shall  certainly  not  permit  an  engagement  until  Mr.  Hamblyn  has 
paid  off  his  debts,  and  has  some  chance  of  making  an  income,  neither 
will  your  mother  or  I  countenance  a  secret  understanding.  I  must,  talk 
to  Madella  and  learn  her  wishes, 'and  then  I  will  speak  to  Mr.  Ham- 
blyn. I  do  not  say  that  we  shall  forbid  him  the  house.  I  have  no  wish 
to  act  the  tyrant,  Bee,  but  you  will  both  have  to  give  me  your  word 
that  there  shall  be  no  private  communications  or  letters — to  speak 
plainly,  no  love-making — until  he  can  come  forward  openly  to  claim 

you.'' 

"  I  am  sure  Oscar  will  never  consent  to  these  terms,"  she  said,  look- 
ing very  miserable. 

"  Then  1  an.  afraid  the  Witchens  will  be  closed  to  him;  but  1  1>- 
you  are  wrong.     If  he  is  really  in  love  with  you,  anil  desires  to  make 
you  his  wife,  a  little  work  and  waiting  will  not  deter  him.     .Now,  don't 

JO  broken-hearted  over  it.     You  can  surely  be  satislied  with  &i 
him  from  time  to  time,  though  I  may  as  well  tell  you  that  we  .shall   not 
trust  you  to  Lady  Hamblyn  again.    "Still,  you  can  see  your  frien«, 
Mora 'here  occasionally."* 

;  you  will  tell' mother  all  about  it?" 

i  down  to  Eastbourne  to  settle  them  in  their  lodg 
and  then  I  shall  write  to  Mr.  Hamblyn,  and  make  an  appointment 
for  an  interview/' 

"  He  is  goiiiH  down  to  Lewes  on  Friday." 

•  Very  well,  i  can  see  him  there;  but,  I3ee,  remember,  no  correspond- 
ence." 


OKLY    THE    GOYERtfESS.  207 

"  He  has  promised  to  write  to  me,"  she  whispered 

"  Then  you  must  answer  his  first  letter,  and  tell  him  there  must  be 
no  more.  Let  him  know  that  I  have  found  out  things,  and  that  I  have 
forbidden  you  to  receive  his  letters.  He  will  be  on  his  guard  then,  and 
will  be  prepared  for  my  visit." 

"  Oh,  Launce,  I  do  think  you  are  so  hard;  and  now  you  will  talk 
mother  over,  and  make  her  agree  with  you.  You  were  not  nearly  so 
severe  with  Mrs.  Thorpe,  though  1  am  sure  she  acted  in  the  most  deceit- 
ful way." 

"  We  will  keep  Mrs.  Thorpe's  name  out  of  the  conversation,"  he  re- 
turned, quietly,  though  a  wave  of  pain  passed  over  him  at  the  mere 
mention  of  her  name.  "  I  only  wish  1  could  tell  your  mother  that  her 
daughter  was  half  as  penitent  as  that  poor  girl  was,"  and  this  reproach 
went  home. 

1 '  Oh,  I  am  sorry,  Launce.  I  have  been  more  miserable  than  you 
know.  I  have  always  told  mother  and  Pauline  everything,  and  it 
troubled  me  so  to  have  a  secret.  I  know  you  don't  think  as  well  of  me 
as  you  do  of  Pauline.  You  have  never  been  angry  with  her;  but  I  did 
not  try  to  make  Oscar  in  love  with  me,  and  I  do  call  it  so  hard  to  be  so 
jcolded,  because  1  can  not  help  returning  his  affection." 

"  Poor  little  thing,  I  suppose  I  must  forgive  you,"  returned  Launce- 
Jot,  relenting  at  her  tears.  "  Don't  fret  any  more,  but  kiss  me,  like  a 
good  girl."  Then  Bee  nestled  up  to  him  and  hid  her  face  on  his 
Shoulder.  "  1  really  am  sorry,  Launce, "  she  whispered;  "please  for- 
give me,"  and  so  peace  was  restored.  Bee  went  to  bed  happily  that 
night,  and  poured  out  all  her  sorrows  to  Pauline,  who  was  dreadfully 
shocked  and  unusually  sympathetic. 

"I  don't  wonder  Launcelot  was  angry.  Bee.  It  was  very  wrong  of 
you  both,  and  I  must  say  I  wonder  at  you.  How  could  you  keep  any- 
thing from  mother?  Oh!  she  will  be  so  hurt;"  but  somehow  Bee  did 
not  mind  Pauline's  blunt  speeches.  She  was  really  a  good  giri,  and  the 
concealment  had  been  odious  to  her,  but  her  lover  had  so  blinded  her 
by  his  plausible  arguments,  that  even  now  Pauline  could  not  bring 
her  to  own  the  heinousness  of  her  fault. 

"  I  told  Launce  I  was  sorry,"  she  said,  quite  happily,  "  and  he  was 
such  a  dear,  but  at  first  he  frightened  me." 

Bee  had  shifted  oil  her  burdens  in  a  light-hearted  fashion.  What  did 
waiting  for  a  year  or  two  signify,  if  Oscar  were  fond  of  her?  And  she 
fell  asleep  and  dreamed  happily  of  her  lover's  dark  eyes. 

Lauucelot  was  far  more  anxious.  He  could  not  in  his  secret  heart 
believe  that  Oscar  Hamblyn  would  stand  the  test  of  separation  and 
prove  himself  a  constant  lover.  Bee  trusted  him  with  a  girl's  simple 
faith,  and  never  questioned  his  fidelity,  but  Launcelot  held  a  different 
opinion,  and  he  feared  for  his  young  sister's  happiness. 

'.'  I  dare  say  he  is  in  love  with  her  after  a  fashion,"  he  thought.  "  A 
pretty  little  creature  like  Bee  could  well  win  a  man's  heart;  but  his  nat- 
ure is  naturally  cold  and  cautious,  and  there  is  one  person  he  cares  for 
more  than  Bee,  and  that  is  himself.  Fancy  a  selfish  fellow  like  Oscar 
Hamblyn.  influencing  the  happiness  of  our  Bee!  I  think  Madella  would 
break  her  heart  if  anything  went  wrong  with  one  of  the  girls.  Oh, 
life's  an  awful  muddle,  as  that  poor  fellow  said." 

Bee  was  on  her  best  behavior  for  the  next  few  days,  and  tried  to  make 
amends  for  her  little  tempers  by  all  sorts  of  pretty  attentions  to  Lauuce- 
lot. 

"  Bee  is  as  sweet  as  barley -sugar,"  Bear  said  one  day.    "  I  think  she 


ONLY    'l 

wants  to  get  .something  out  of  Launcc;"  at  which  speech  they  botn 

.lid  not  oiVer  her  first  love  letter  for  Launcelot's  perusal — it  was 

far  to  prci  join  :  -  hut  hers — hut  she  wrote  back  that 

overheard  the  other  day.     Launcelot    had  discovered 

everything,  and  was  annoyed  at  the  secrecy;  he  was  very  kind  toher, 

but  he  had  fully  made  up  his  mind  to  speak  to  Oscar.     "  I  am  afraid 

•  nditions  w'ill  not  please  you,"  she  went  on.     "  You  were  right  in 

thinking  that  an  engagement  would  not  be  allowed  at  present.    Still, 

you  will  be  content  to  see  me  sometimes,  will  you  not,  dearest?  and  you 

know  that  I  would  wait  any  number  of  years  for  you,  my  own  ( )scar  " 

— and  so  on. 

'oufouiul  it  all,  it  is  just  like  my  luck!"  growled  Oscar,  as  he  read 
that  letter  in  his  hotel  bedroom.  "  Now  we  shall  have  the  brolher,  t  n. 
f/ni/iff  seigneur,  I  suppose,  demanding  my  intentions.  Well,  they  are 
distinctly  matrimonial;  I  do  not  intend  to  give  up  my  little  Beatrix. 
Erica  may  tear  her  hair  if  she  likes.  The  missis  must  give  me  a  help- 
ing hand:  she  and  Nora  can  pinch  a  little.  Nora  ought  to  be  settled 
by  this  time:  she  is  rather  a  dead  weight.  Beatrix  will  have  Jive  thou- 
sand pounds,  anU  most  likely  her  brother  will  do  something  handsome, 
so  I  may  as  well  be  civil  to  him,  though  as  for  conditions— well,  we 
shall  see  about  that;"  and  Oscar  looked  rather  wicked  as  he  whistled 
melodiously  a  few  bars  of  "  My  love  she's  but  a  lassie  yet." 

Launcelot  was  counting  the  days  until  Freckles's  interesting  con- 
valescence should  have  progressed  far  enough  to  permit  his  removal  to 
Eastbourne.  He  was  longing  for  motherly  help  and  sympathy.  "  1 
am  afraid  Madella  will  take  their  part,"  lie  thought,  "unless  Ham- 
blyn's  underhand  wa}rs  prejudice  her  against  him;  but,  all  the  same,  I 
must  not  act  on  my  own  undivided  responsibility.  What  a  bl< 
that,  fellow  is  at  Lewes!  There  is  no  fear  of  his  turning  up  when  one  is 
off  one's  guard." 

Launcelot  was  making  his  toilet  while  these  thoughts  passed  through 
his  mind,  and  fastening  his  diamond  studs  rather  alWntly.  Bee  and  he 
were  to  dine  at  the  Koskills'  that  evening,  a  family  living  in  a  large 
house  across  the  common;  but  at  the  last  moment  Bee  turned  captious. 

hated  dinner-parties.  The  idea  of  a  dinner  party  in  August 
just  because  an  old  uncle  had  arrived  from  India!  And  the  Roskills' 
dinners  were  always  such  stupid  affairs;  she  was  sure  to  have  a  h<  ad- 
ache  if  she  went,  so  Pauline  might  as  well  take  her  place." 

Pauline  made  no  demur.     In  her  heart  she  disliked  dinner  j> 
quite  as  much  as  Bee,  but  she  was  very  good-natured,  and  seldom  re- 
fused to  comply  with  Bee's  caprices.     "  Very  well,  I  will  go,"  sb 
turned,  with  cheerful  acquiesn 

"  Paid,  you  are  a  rattling  good  fellow;  you  are  worth  half  a  do/en 
I  Bear,  admiringly. 

"  Pauline  is  always  ready  to  do  a  kindness  for  every  one,"  returned 
Ixiuneelot,  approvingly.     "  1  wish  Bee  were  not  quite  s 
1  know  you  do  not  want  to  go." 

"  Oh,' I  don't  mind  with  you,  Launce;  and  we  will  walk  home  across 
the  common;  it  \vill  be  a  lovely  night;''  and   Pauline  tripped  av> 
put  on  In  •  :ud  prettiest  gown. 

Pauline  had  no  i  iea  that  her  HUH  Itishmss  would  be  amply  rewarded 
— that  the  first  person  who  would  inei  t  her  eyes  in  ihc  Roskills'  dining- 
room  would  be  Dr.  Maxwell.  He  came  up  and  greeted  her  witjj 
marked  pleasure. 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  209 

"  They  told  me  I  was  to  take  in  Miss  Chuclleigh  to  dinner,  but  I  had 
no  idea  it  was  you  they  meant;"  and  a  certain  intonation  in  his  voice 
made  Pauline's  heart  beat  a  little  faster.  How  well  Dr.  Maxwell 
was  looking!  she  thought.  Dark  men  always  looked  their  best  in  even- 
ing-clress.  It  was  all  very  well  for  Bee  to  call  him  plain,  because  her 
mind  was  full  of  a  certain  dark-eyed  Adonis.  But  certainly  Dr.  Max- 
well was  the  most  gentlemanly  looking  man  in  the  room — and  then  what 
a  clever  face  he  had! 

Pauline  certainly  enjoyed  that  dinner-party;  she  hardly  complained 
of  its  tedious  length  when  Dr.  Maxwell  lavished  his  whole  attention  on 
her,  and  seemed  even  to  forget  his  dinner  in  his  animated  talk. 

Launcelot  grew  a  little  envious  as  he  watched  them;  his  companion 
Tvas  hardly  to  his  taste.  His  hostess  had  introduced  him  to  a  lady 
whose  name  he  had  not  caught,  but  he  guessed  she  was  unmarried. 

She  was  rather  a  plain  little  person,  exceedingly  well  dressed,  and 
wearing  a  diamond  star  in  her  tlaxen  hair.  She  was  pale  and  insignili- 
cant- looking,  with  light  eyelashes  and  babyish  blue  eyes,  and  might  he 
any  age  from  sixteen  in  si'x-and-thirty,  and  her  conversation  was  hardly 
up  to  the  level  of  mediocrity;  in  a  word,  she  was  decidedly  uninterest- 
ing. She  volunteered  an  observation  with  some  animation  as  they 
placed  themselves  at  the  table  and  Launcelot  inspected  his  menu-carte. 

"  I  am  told  that  Miss  Chudleigh  is  here/'  she  said.  "  Can  you  point 
her  out  to  me?" 

"  My  sister  Pauline,"  he  returned,  in  some  surprise.  "  Oh,  yes;  she 
is  sitting  nearly  opposite  to  us;  the  gentleman  beside  her  is  Doctor  Max- 
well." 

''  Pauline,  did  you  say?"  dropping  her  pince-nez  with  rather  a  dis- 
appointed air.  "'Oh,  that  is  not  the  same.  I  thought  it  was  your  sis- 
ter Beatrix." 

"  What,  have  you  heard  of  them  before?"  he  asked,  in  some  aston- 
ishment. 

"  Yes,  from  my  cousins,"  she  replied,  quietly.  "  I  know  your  sister 
is  very  pretty,  Mir.  Ohudleigh.  This  one  is  nice-looking,  but  not  what 
I  expected.  I  am  told  your  sister  Beatrix  is  quite  a  beauty." 

"Some  people  say  so,"  he  returned,  carelessly;  "she  is  much  ad- 
mired, but  I  prefer  Pauline's  face  myself;"  and  Pauline,  hearing  her 
name,  looked  across  the  table  with  a  bright  smile. 

It  was  Launcelot  who  was  inclined  to  stigmatize  dinner-parties  that 
day.  It  was  quite  a  relief  when  the  long  evening  was  over  and  he 
stood  at  the  door  looking  out  on  the  moonlight  and  -waiting  for  Pauline 
to  join  him. 

She  came  out  presently  with  a  lace  scarf  thrown  over  her  hair,  and  in 
her  pretty  cloak  trimmed  with  swan's-down,  and  took  his  arm.  Dr. 
Maxwell,  who  was  following  her,  bade  them  good-bye  at  the  gate. 

"There,  that's  over,"  observed  Launcelot,  in  a  tone  of  relief.  "I 
hope  you  enjoyed  yourself  more  than  I  did,  Paul." 

""Oh,  yes,  very  much,  thank  you,"  returned  Pauline,  rather  inco- 
herently. "  Please  walk  slower,  Launce;  it  is  such  a  delicious  night, 
and  there  is  no  fear  of  catching  cold;  besides,  I  am  wrapped  up.  I  did 
enjoy  the  first  part  of  the  evening  until  we  went  into  the  drawing-room, 
and  then,  oh,  Launce,  she  came  and  talked  to  me  and  spoiled  every 
thmg." 

"  Whom  on  earth  do  vou  mean  by  '  she  '?" 

"  Miss  Stewart — the  girl  who  sat  by  you  at  dinner." 


210  ON  I 

"  Oh,  was  that  her  name?  I  could  not  hear  what  Mrs.  Tvoskill  called 
her;  but  she  was  a  dreadfully  uninteresting  little  person." 

"  Rut.  Launcelot,  I  don't 'think  you  take  it  in— she  is  Kiira  Stewart 
—the  llamblyns'  cousin.  She  came  up  and  introduced  herself  to  me, 
and  began  talking  about  them  in  the  oddest  way — and— oh,  dear!  what 
shall  we  do  with  ReeV  it.  has  made  me  quite  miserable — M5>s  Stewart 
declares  she  is  engaged  to  her  cousin  Oscar,  that  lie  proposed  to  her 
years  ago." 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

"  OSCAll      is     A      SAD     HOY." 

Has  Fate  o'envhelmed  tbee  with  some  sudden  blow? 

Let  thy  tears  How: 
But  now  when  storms  are  past  the  heavens  appear 

More  pure  and  clear : 
And  hope  when  farthest  from  their  shining  rays 

For  brighter  days. 

ADELAIDE  ANNE  PROCTER. 

As  Pauline  uttered  the  last  \rords  with  a  little  gasp  of  excitement, 
Launcelot  put  his  hand  on  her  arm. 

"  There  is  no  hurry,  and  you  are  wrapped  up,"  he  said,  quietly, 
"  and  the  night  is  quite  warm;  let  us  sit  down  for  a  few  minutes,  and 
then  you  can  tell  me  all  that  passed  between  you  and  Miss  Stewart." 

"  But,  Launce,  you  do  not  even  seem  surprised,  and  it  is  all  so  dread- 
ful. Poor  dear  Bee,  and  she  is  so  fond  of  him!" 

"I  can  not  say  that  I  am  surprised.     I  always  expected  son 
(liiiuni  UK  /it  as  this.     Hainblyn  has  not  got  the  right,  straightforward 
look  about  him.     Engaged  to  his  cousin?    It  is  probably  the  truth.     I 
should  say  he  is  the  sort  of  fellow  to  be  engaged  half  a  dozen  tim 

"  Well,  not  exactly  engaged,  but  I  had  better  tell  you  what  sii 
though  it  was  odd  giving  me  her  confidence  when  we  were  perfect 
strangers  to  each  other — but  then  she  had  her  reasons." 

"  1  am  quite  sure  of  that." 

"  I  could  not  help  noticing  her  when  we  were  at  dinner.  I  think  her 
diamonds  attracted  me  first;  it  seemed  so  strange  to  sec  them  on  a  mere 
girl.  But  she  is  not  so  young  as  she  looks;  she  must  be  thirty,  only  she 
is  such  a  pale,  washed-out  little  thing.  How  can  a  man  like  Mr.  J  lam- 
blyn  make  love  to  such  an  insignificant  person?" 

"  My  dear  Paul,  if  you  do  not  keep  to  the  point  we  shall  have  to  sit 
here  until  morning.    I  don't  think  we  were  either  of  us  much  inte: 
in  Mis<  Stewart."" 

"  No,  indeed,  I  could  see  how  bored  you  felt— not  thnt  any  o; 
would  have  noticed  it,  but  I  knew  what  your  expression  meant,     Well, 
ull  dinner-time  I  could  see  she  was  watching  me,  at  least  1  never  1 
up  without  encountering  her  eyes,  and  1  began  to  wonder  at  last  who 
she  could  be.     But  as  soon  as  we  were  in  ihe  drawing-n>om  she  came 
up  and  introduced  herself  to  me  and  asked  me  to  go  with  her  into  the 
rvatery  to  look  at  some  orchids,  but  instead  of  looking  at  them 
she  began  talking  about  Beatrix." 

"  Oli,  I  recollect  she  mentioned  Bee,  but  I  gave  her  no  encouragement 
on." 

.id  how  much  she  had  heard  of  us  both  from  her  ' 
ra   quite   raved   about   !'»«  .and   that  .she  knew 

kow  often  she  and  Oscar  were  at  the  Witchens;  and  then  her  manner 


OKLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  211 

changed,  and  she  said,  in  rather  a  constrained  voice,  that  she  supposed 
we  knew  that  she  and  Oscar  meant  to  make  a  match  of  it  some  day — 
that  they  had  been  as  good  as  engaged  ever  since  they  had  grown  up, 
and  that  but  for  her  poor  uncle  Charles's  long  illness  they  would  have 
been  married  by  now.  All  this  said  quite  bluntly  and  in  the  most  mat- 
ter-of-fact manner,  and  without  a  blush." 

"  Awkward  for  you,  Paul/' 

"  Awkward!  I  turned  as  red  as  a  turkey-cock  in  a  moment,  and 
hardly  knew  if  I  was  in  my  proper  senses.  You  know  I  never  could 
hide  my  feelings,  so  I  suppose  my  face  betrayed  my  thoughts,  for  1 
only  uttered  a  stupid  '  Indeed,'  for  she  looked  at  me  and  said  rather 
sharply,  'I  suppose  Oscar  never  gave  you  the  impression  of  being  an 
engaged  man?'  and  my  indignant  *  Xo,  'indeed!'  must  have  Spoken  vol 
urnes,  for  she  reddened  a  little  and  hit  her  lip,  though  she  answered  in 
the  same  composed  manner,  '  Oh,  Oscar  is  a  sad  boy,  but  he  is  only  like 
other  young  men.  Few  can  resist  a  flirtation  with  a.  pretty  girl;  they 
do  it  just  for  the  fun  of  the  thing,  and  because  it  gives  them  alittle  im- 
portance in  their  own  eyes.  They  pride  themselves  on  their  conquests 
very  much  as  an  Indian  warrior  prides  himself  on  the  number  of  his 
scalps,'  and  here  her  laugh  was  not  quite  pleasant.  '  I  only  hope  Oscar 
did  not  make  himself  too  agreeable  to  your  pretty  sister.' 

"  This  was  too  much.  Was  it  not  impertinent  of  her?  I  drew  my- 
self up  in  a  most  dignified  manner,  and  said  in  the  most  chilling  voice 
I  could  assume.  me,  Miss  Stewart,  but  my  sister  is  a  perfect 

stranger  to  yoti,  and  you  can  have  no  right  to  bring  in  her  name.  I  be- 
lieve we  were  speaking  of  your  cousin,  Mr.  Hamblyn,'  but  she  was  not 
to  be  repressed.  '  I  am  sure  I  beg  your  pardon,  Miss  ( 'hudleigh,  but 
you  must  scold  Nora,  not  me,  for  she  is  the  culprit;  she  warned  me 
once  that  Oscar  was  up  to  his  old  tricks,  and  went  far  too  often  to  the 
Witchens,  but  I  only  laughed  at  her—''  Young  men  will  have  their 
fling,"  I  said.' 

"  '  I  am  very  much  obliged  for  this  confidence,'  I  began,  stiflly—  you 
know  how  awkward  I  can  be — but  Miss  Stewart  only  looked  at  me  in 
an  amused  sort  of  way,  and  began  to  laugh— she  has  rather  a  pretty 
laugh. 

;  '  No,  you  are  not  a  bit  obliged  to  me;  you  think  me  a  very  blunt, 
disagreeable  sort  of  person.  You  are  wondering  how  any  stranger  can 
take  such  a  liberty,  but  I  can't  help  all  that.  I  always  was  blunt,  and 
age  does  not  mend  matters,  and  in  short  I  had  my  reasons.  Now,  Miss 
Ghudleigh,  I  told  you  a  bit  of  a  fib  just  now,  only  I  did  not  see  how  to 
put  things.  I  am  not  engaged  to  my  cousin,  but  he  is  engaged  to  me. 
Just  let  me  tell  you  about  it.  I  have  my  reasons  for  being  confidential, 
and  they  are  not  bad  reasons.  It  has  always  been  understood  between 
the  two  families  that  Oscar  and  I  were  to  marry  each  other;  but  when 
he  proposed  three  years  ago,  I  did  not  accept  him  definitely,  and  this 
was  the  case  each  time  he  spoke  to  me  on  the  subject.  Did  you  speak?' 
for  I  gave  some  sort  of  exclamation  at  this.  '  I  suppose  you  are  sur- 
prised at  my  obduracy.  Yes,  Oscar  has  proposed  three  times;  but  when 
a  girl  is  rich/  and  here  she  sighed  a  little  as  though  the  sense  of  her 
own  wealth  overwhelmed  her,  '  and  the  young  man  has  college  debts, 
and  has  besides  an  unfortunate  propensity  for  flirting,  it  is  only  wise  to 
be  on  one's  guard.' 

"  '  And  you  are  not  engaged  to  him  even  now?'  I  observed,  for 
somehow  1  did  not  seem  to  dislike  her  so  much  as  she  went  ou  talking. 
She  is  evidently  an  original  sort  of  little  person. 


SI 2  ONLY    rl  KRXESS. 

N\,,'  but  looking  at  me  in  a  queer  kind  of  way.  '  lint  all  the  same 

.n   to  marry  Oscar  in  the  spring,  and  have  written  to  tell  him  so. 

!To\v  surprised  you  look!    But  he  is  engaged  to  me,  you  see;  and  this 

iiu'iit  between  us,  that  1  was  to  tell  him  when  I  had  made 

up  my  mind  thai  lie  was  to  In-  trusted.     Of  course,  as  he  has  said  him- 

••Vcr  and  over  again,  he  has  lx>en  ready  for  me  these  three  years.' 

Ami  you   have  made  up  your  mind  to  trust  him?'  but  hen 
laughed  again  a  little  wickedly. 

Well,  no;  hut  I  am  afraid  of  his  getting  into  mischief,  and  I  think 
it  will  be  the  best  for  him  to  have  a  .sensible  wife  to  look  after  him,  .Miss 
Chudleigh,'  and  she  looked  at  me  rather  nicely.  'Please  dm 

with  the  notion  that  1  am  a  very  forward,  peculiar  person  to  have 
told  you  all  this,  for  I  meant  it  for  the  best.  1  am  afraid  I  know  a 
little  too  much,  and  that  Oscar  has  been  a  bad  boy.  Will  you  tell 
your  sister  from  me  that  if  I  did  not  know  that  it  would  be  the  best  and 
happiest  thing  for  Oscar  to  marry  me,  and  that  no  other  woman  had  >o 
great  a  right  to  be  his  wife,  I  would  hesitate  even  now?  Hut  I  know 
him,  and  I  know  in  time  I  shall  make  him  happy.  Please  give  my 
love  to  her;'  and  then  the  tears  came  into  her  eyes, 'and  before  I  could 
answer  her  she  had  left  me  and  joined  Mrs.  Roskill  in  the  drawing- 
room." 

"  Upon  my  word,  Paul,  I  believe  she  meant  well.  It  was  an  uncom- 
monly plucky  thing  for  a  girl  to  do.  You  may  depend  upon  it  some 
busybody  or  other  lias  told  her  about  that  fellow's  attention  to  our 
Bee/' 

"  But,  Launce,  surely  she  would  not  marry  him  if  she  really  believed 
him  to  be  in  love  with  another  girl?" 

"  Well,  you  see,  she  regards  "him  as  her  own  property,  and  does  not 
feel  inclined  1o  yield  her  rights.     One  thing  is  very  evident,  that  she 
•  ds  Bee  as  a  formidable  rival." 
How  do  you.  mean?" 

"  Well,  I  expect  that  Hamblyn  has  been  trying  to  free  himself,  and 
that  in  the  attempt  he  has  only  drawn  his  bonds  tighter.  Poor  wretch, 
one  would  be  half  inclined  to  pity  him,  for  I  believe  he  is  as  much  in 
love  with  Bee  as  his  selfish  nature  will  allow  him  to  be,  if  one  were  not 
vage  with  him  for  the  mischief  he  has  done!  Confound  the  fellow, 
why  could  he  not  let  our  little  Bee  alone!  How  dare  he  make  L 
her  when  he  knew  he  was  bound  to  marry  another  woman!" 

"  Don't  you  think  Miss  Stewart  might  set  him  free  if  she  really  knew 
the  circumstances  of  the  case— how  much  they  cared  for  each"  other, 
and—"  but  here  Pauline  stopped,  half  frightened  by  the  frown  on 
Launcdot's  face. 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  don't  hint  at  such  a  thing!     Better  any  unhap- 
I  than  such  a  maniage  as  that.     Fond  of  him  as  she  is,  U'ee  would 
consent  to  such  an  arrangement;  1    know  my  sifter  better  than 
that.     \Yith  all  her  faults,  Bee  would  be  too 'proud  and  hone-1  to  rob 
another  girl  of  her  just  rights.     What  was  .Miss  Stewart's  i 
h<-r?     Tell  me  again';  it  seems  to  me  that  the  words  were  very 
nant  with  meaning." 

'  AV511  you  tell  your  sister  from  me,'"  began  Pauline,  slowly, 
"  '  that  if  I  did  not' know  that  it  would  be  the  best  and  happiest  thing 
for  Oscar  to  marry  me,  and  that  no  other  woman  h.  '  a  right,  to 

be  his  wife,  I  would  hesitate  even  now;  but  1  know  him,  and  1  know 
in  time  that  I  sh;.ll  make  him  happy." 

tly  so;  she  knows  him  to  be  a  weak,  tickle,  self-indulg< 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  213 

low,  who  cares  more  for  himself  than  for  any  one  else.  Xo  doubt  she  is 
quite  correct  in  her  estimate  of  his  character.  She  TV  ill  fill  his  empty 
purse,  pay  his  debts,  and  give  him  a  comfortable  home  and  all  the 
luxuries  his  miserable  soul  delights  in;  and  in  return  he  will  make  her 
a  tolerably  good  husband,  though  he  will  be  rather  sulky  and  unman- 
ageable at  iirst.  But  she  had  better  make  up  her  mind  to  one  fact- 
nothing  will  cure  him  of  his  flirting,  not  the  prettiest  wife  in  the  world. 
He  is  the  sort  of  fellow  who  can't  be  near  a  woman  without  making  love 
to  her." 

Pauline  shrugged  her  shoulders  at  this  description,  and  then  she  said, 
a  little  plaintively — 

"  Oh,  never  mind  about  him;  the  question  is  how  are  we  to  tell  I ' 
and  at  this  question  Launcelot  looked  exceedingly  grave.     He  seemed 
to  think  deeply,  and  after  a  few  minutes'  silence  lie  stud,  quietly— 

"  I  think  we  will  not  tell  her  at  all." 

"  But,  Launce — " 

"  My  dear,  a  day  or  two's  delay  will  not  matter.  Why  should  either 
you  or  I  discharge  such  a  cruel  task?  Let  him  tell  her  himself — he 
must,  sooner  or  later.  Depend  upon  it,  Paul,  that  there  will  be  a  letter 
before  many  days  are  over." 

"  But  think  of  the  dreadful  shock — oh,  Launce!"  and  here  the  tears 
came  into  Pauline's  eyes. 

"  Should  we  lessen  the  shock  by  telling  her  ourselves?    Can  any  form 
of  words  palliate  the  fact  that  he  has  won  her  affection  under  false  pre- 
3,  and  that  he  is  bound  to  marry  another  woman?     How  are  we  to 
sweeten  such  a  piece  of  intelligence  as  that?" 

"  And  we  are  to  wait  for  that  dreadful  letter?" 

"  Yes,  I  believe  that  will  be  the  best  plan.  You  must  not  think  me 
hard  or  unsympathizing,  Paul,  but  1  am  boiling  over  with  rage  when  I 
think  of  the  power  that  fellow  lias  got.  AVliy  can  not  one  punish  such 
a  sin  as  that '!  AVhen  I  think  how  helpless  and  innocent  many  girls  an;, 
how  little  they  know  of  a  man's  nature,  how  credulous  and  unsuspect- 
ing they  are — the  fond  fools— I  am  full  of  wrath  against  the  men  who 
play  them  false.  I  should  like  to  give  them  something  that  they  would 
carry  to  their  dying  day,  to  teach  them  not  to  play  with  such  sacred 
things  as  girls'  hearts  and  women's  honor.  But  there,  I  am  sick  of  the 
subject!  Let  us  go  in— we  shall  do  Bee  no  good  if  we  talk  here  until 
morning." 

And  so  saying  he  rose  from  the  bench  and  Pauline  followed,  almost 
too  awe-struck  to  speak.  She  had  never  seen  Launcelot  so  stern,  so 
angry,  in  all  her  life  before.  The  concentrated  bitterness  of  his  tone 
certainly  showed  no  want  of  feeling,  only  a  man  sometimes  shows  his 
sympathy  by  righteous  indignation. 

Pauline  passed  a  restless  night;  a  strange  medley  of  ideas  haunted  her 
waking  and  dreaming  thoughts.  Her  dread  of  Bee's  unhappiness  was 
every  now  and  then  crosseoT  by  a  vivid  remembrance  of  something  Dr. 
Maxwell  had  said,  or  a  sudden  recollection  of  how  he  had  looked. 

"  Nothing  would  ever  make  him  do  a  dishonorable  thing!"  she  said 
to  herself.  "  He  is  so  unselfish  and  so  absolutely  true,  he  would  bear 
anything  rather  than  make  a  girl  unhappy,"  finished  Pauline,  with 
girlish  faith  in  her  own  ideal. 

Neither  Launcelot  nor  Pauline  enjoyed  their  breakfast  the  next  morn- 
ing. Bee  was  in  one  of  her  most  lively  moods;  she  questioned  them 
about  the  party,  and  wanted  to  know  whom  Launcelot  had  taken  in  to 
dinner. 


214  ONLY  TIM:   GOVJ 

•cwart— what  sort  of  ;i  p<  -lie.  Lamx 

innocently,  and  her  brother's   careless  "  ( )li.  a  plain,  overdressed  littlo 
body,  with  very  littlo  to  say  for  herself,"  seemed  to  satisfy  her. 

"  And  Doctor  Maxwell  took  Paul  in?" 

"  Yes,"  answered  Pauline,  with  a  sudden  Mush;  "  ;nid  In 
niee  and  amusing  as  usual,  and  1  had  dear  old  Colonel  Dacre  on  my 
other  side,  so  1  was  well  oil'.     1  was  rather  sorry  ""for  poor  Laun. 
looked  so  bored." 

But  Pauline,  us  she  talked,  hardly  dared  to  look  at  her  sister's  b: 
ami  ling  faee. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  this  morning,  Launce?"  she  a>k< 
they  rose  from  the  table. 

Bernard— lazy  fellow! — had  not  yet  put  in  an  appearance,  an 
had  rung  for  fresh  coil'ee  and  a  hot  rasher  or  two  of  bacon. 

"  Why  don't  you  let  Bear  have  eold  coil'ee V"  grumbled  Launeelot, 
as  he  heard  her  order.  "  \Yhat  business  has  ;i  strong,  healthy  fellow 
to  lie  in  bed  half  the  morning?— sitting  up  late  rending— in 
though  that  is  any  excuse:  it  is  pure  laziness.  What  did  you  ask  me, 
Paul?  oh,  what  am  I  going  to  do?  Well,  I  have  an  idea  for  a  new  pict- 
ure—it came  into  my  head  last  night,  so  I  am  going  to  shut  myself  up 
in  the  studio.  Now  then,  Bear,  what  have  you  to  say  for  yourself?" 

"  That  I  am  uncommonly  hungry,"  remarked  Bernard,  nodding 
affably  to  his  sisters,  and  seating  himself  at  the  deserted  breakfast-table. 
lie  wore  white  flannels,  and  looked  the  perfect  embodiment  of  a  hand- 
some, healthy  young  Englishman. 

"  There  is  fresh  coffee  coming,  Bernard,"  remarked  Bee,  as  she  saw 
him  reach  across  the  table  for  the  coffee-pot,  "  and  some  bacon  and  an 
egg." 

"  You  are  a  duck,"  was  Bear's  answer  to  this.  "  Here's  your  health, 
my  lass,  and  a  good  husband  for  you  before  the  year  is  out.  Now  then, 
Launce,  what's  up,  old  fellow?" 

"  I  used  to  think  ten  hours'  sleep  rather  too  much  at  your  age,  Bear; 
but  times  have  changed,  so  pray  don't  apologize.  Perhaps  'the  poor 
boy  would  like  an  omelet,  or  a  deviled  kidney;  pray  see  after  his  little 
comforts,  Bee."  But  as  Launeelot  leveled  this  sarcasm,  Bernard  only 
threw  his  head  back  with  a  laugh  of  intense  enjoyment. 

"  You  are  behiu  1  the  times,  my  dear  fellow;  we  Oxford  men  know 
what  suits  our  constitution.     '  Take  plenty  of  rest,'  as  Dr.  Phillpi 
last  term,  so  I  am  carrying  out  his  prescription.     Now  then,  Fenwick, 
look  sharp;  some  more  toast,  and  you  may  as  well  boil  another 
while  you  are  about  it." 

But  Launeelot  heard  no  more.  He  went  off  to  his  studio,  and  was 
presently  so  absorbed  in  sketching  out  a  subject  for  a  new  picture  that 
he  almost  forgot  Bee's  prospective  trouble.  He  took  a  hurried  luncheon, 
and  then  went  back  to  his  work.  Bernard,  who  had  passed  the  morn- 
ing in  a  hammock,  pretending  to  read,  announced  his  intention  of  tak- 
ing Pauline  and  Sybil  on  the  river.  "I  can't  take  more  than  two," 
lie  observed,  and  Bee  consoled  Dossie  by  proposing  that  they  should 
take  their  work  and  books  into  the  shrubbery.  "  It  will  be  cool  (here, 
and  we  will  have  tea  under  the  trees,"  and  Dossie  thought  this  a  charm- 
ing arrangement. 

neelot  worked   on,  oblivious  of  time   as   usual:  he  was  thankful 
when  any  occupation  deadened  thought— a  sort,  of  fiend  of  di-content 
and  disappointed  longing  seemed  to  lie  in  wait  for  his  leisure  horn. 
his  secret  soul  he  began  to  fear  whether  he  should  ever  enjoy  the  dvlM 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  215 

far  nient^  again — "whether  pleasure  hud  not  become  an  unknown  in- 
gredient  in  his  life. 

Things  might  be  worse,  however,  he  told  himself,  with  grim  phi- 
losophy—if he  had  not  his  work,  for  example;  he  luul  feared  at  first 
that  he  should  never  care  to  paint  another  picture,  but  a  curious  fancy, 
an  embodiment  of  his  own  sad  thoughts,  had  come  into  his  head,  and  he 
was  anxious  to  work  it  out. 

"  That  is  the  best  of  being  an  artist  or  a  poet,"  he  thought,  dreamily 
that  afternoon.  "In  one  sense  one  must  live  a  lie  and  pretend  to  be 
happy  at  all  costs,  but  there  need  be  no  pretense  in  one's  work.  The 
hidden  trouble  may  color  the  picture  or  give  expression  to  the  poem, 
and  no  one  is  the  wiser;  the  real  and  fabled  woe  may  be  so  cunningly 
blended  that  the  keenest  eye  can  not  detect  the  reality.  I  suppose  'I 
can  suck  melancholy  out  of  a  song,'  with  any  melancholy  .Jacques. 
'  Motley  is  the  only  wear  '  for  most  fools,  but  a  man  may  change  the 
color  of  his  coat  when  his  heart  or  his  head  grows  gray.'"  And  here 
Launcelot  sighed,  and  then  set  himself  in  dogged  fashion  to  complete 
his  hasty  sketch. 

The  afternoon  shadows  were  deepening  on  the  lawn,  and  he  was  jus* 
making  up  his  mind  to  put  away  his  work  for  the  day  and  take  a  walk 
before  dinner,  when  a  hesitating  knock  at  the  door,  followed  by  a  dog's 
scratching,  informed  him  that  Dossie  and  Beppo  were  seeking  admit- 
tance. 

As  this  was  against  the  rules,  Launcelot  pretended  to  frown  as  1m 
opened  the  door,  but  the  first  glance  at  the  child's  face  made  him  say 
hastily,  "  What  is  the  matter,  n<«  />•{</>?  lias  anyone  frightened  you 
or  Beppo?"  for  Dossie's  blue  eyes  had  a  scared  look  in  them. 

"  I  think  I  was  a  little  frightened,  Mr.  Lance,"  she  returned,  in  her 
old-fashioned,  punctilious  way.  "  I  am  afraid  there  is  something  the 
matter  with  Cousin  Bee,  she  looks  quite  dreadful.  We  were — ; 

"  Why,  what  do  you  mean,  Dossie V" 

"  Well,  we  were  laughing  and  talking,  and  then  Fenwick  brought 
her  a  letter,  and  she  looked,  oh,  so  pale,  as  she  read  it,  and  she  will  not 
answer  or  say  a  word,  and  looks  just  as  though  she  were  dazed,  so  I 
thought  I  would  come  and  tell  you." 

"  Always  a  wise  little  woman,  Dossie,"  putting  his  hand  on  the  fair 
hair  that  'was  now.Madella's  pride.  "  Thank  you,  my  dear;  I  will  go 
to  Bee  at  once.  Never  mind  coming  with  me;  I  dare  say  she  and  I  will 
do  better  alone.  So  it  has  come!"  he  muttered  to  himself,  as  he  crossed 
the  lawn,  wondering  what  he  was  to  say  and  do  in  such  a  painful 
emergency. 

But  there  was  no  hesitation  at  all  about  his  manner  when  he  sawr  her 
face.  The  poor  girl  looked  as  though  she  were  turned  to  stone;  her 
pretty  color  had  gone,  and  there  was  a  faded  look  about  her  face  that 
made  him  set  his  teeth  and  mutter  a  word  that  was  hardly  a  blessing, 
while  the  pained,  incredulous  expression  in  her  eyes  gave  him  a  sort  of 
shock.  She  did  not  speak,  only  looked  at  him,  and  tightened  her  grasp 
on  the  paper  that  lay  on  her  lap. 

"  I  know  all  about  it,  Bee,"  he  said,  gently.  "  Will  you  let  me  read 
the  letter?"  And  without  waiting  for  her  permission  he  stooped  and 
unlocked  the  clinched  fingers,  which  somehow  became  cold  and  nerve- 
less in  his  grasp;  but  as  he  turned  away  to  read  it  he  saw  a  long  shiver 
pass  over  her.  "  Now  let  me  see  what  the  fellow  has  to  say  for  him- 
self," he  thought,  as  his  eye  ran  over  the  page. 


Ml 'I  ONLY     TIIK     (iOVKUN! 

!yown  darling,"  it  began.  "  how  ;nn  I  to  prepare  you  forbad 
How  am  1  to  tell  you,  after  all  my  protestations  of  afTection, 
that  cruel  necessity  obliges  me  to  resign  you?  Yes.  it  has  come  to  this, 
that  we  must  part.  I  must  never  hope  to  win  you  i'or  my  wife.  The 
future  that  we  were  to  have  shared  together  has  heroine  an  impossibility 
• — and  yet  1  love  you  as  dearly  us  ever.  I  \vonder  it'  you  will  ever  for- 
give me?  1  liave  treated  you  badly,  but  at  least  I  can  plead  the  force 
of  temptation.  How  Could  I  see  you  without  loving  you?  Let  this 
excuse  me  .1  little  in  your  eyes,  if  your  people  blacken  me  to  you. 

"  Hut  now  I  must  confess  my  sins.     1  have  spoken  to  you  of  my  . 
in,  Krica  Stewart,  but  I  never  told  you  that  three  years  ago  1  made  her 
an  oiler.     That  offer  was  renewea  from  time  to  time,   until   ii 
arranged  between  us  that  I  was  to  consider  myself  bound  to  her  until 
>he  chos(  to  accept  me. 

"  I  have  no  excuse  to  make  for  this.  I  did  not  love  my  cousin,  but 
we  were  good  friends;  and  I  was  poor  and  in  difficulties,  and  Krica  was 
very  generous. 

"  1  thought  little  about  the  matter,  and  the  future  never  troubled  me 
until  I  met  you,  my  darling,  and  then — then — the  old  bonds  grew  hate- 
ful and  I  struggled  to  be  free.  But  no,  at  my  first  word  Erica  told  me 
that  she  considered  we  were  engaged.  And  I,  what  could  I  say?  How 
could  I  answer  her  when  I  knew  I  was  bound  to  her  by  every  tie  of 
honor  and  gratitude? 

"  I  will  not  speak  to  you  of  my  unhappiness.  I  must  dree  my  weird. 
Surely  it  is  sufficient  punishment  for  all  my  ill  doings  to  know  that  1 
have  lost  you,  and  by  my  own  fault!  But  at  least  I  may  entreat  your 
forgiveness — I  may  ask  you  to  think  mercifully  of 

"  Your  devoted  penitent, 

"  OSCAR  HAMF.LYN." 

A  dark  look  came  over  Launcelot's  face  as  he  read.  "  Would  his 
honor  have  bound  him  if  Erica  Stewart  were  poor?"  he  said  to  himself. 
And  then  he  replaced  the  letter  in  the  envelope,  and  sat  down  by  his 
sister. 

"  You  must  face  it,  Bee,  like  a  brave  woman." 

"  It  is  true,  then?"  fixing  her  heavy  eyes  on  him. 

"  Yes,  dear,  it  is  unfortunately  too  true.  Pauline  and  I  were  waiting 
for  this  letter.  You  know,  we  met  Miss  Stewart  last  night.  She  told 
Paul  all  about  her  connection  with  llamblyn.  He  has  treated  hoth  of 
you  as  badly  as  possible.  But  before  we  talk  about  that  let  me  give  you 
her  message;"  and  very  slowly  Launeelot  repeated  the  words,  for  there 
was  a  blank,  uncomprehending  look  in  Bee's  eyes  that  told  him  the 
sharp  anguish  she  was  suffering  had  somewhat  dulled  her  faculties. 
you  see,"  he  finished,  softly,  "  that  Miss  Stewart  knows  all  about 
it  too,  and  has  forgiven  him  his  faithlessness;  and  yet  it  seems  to  me 
that  his  sin  against  her  has  been  greater  than  even  his  transgn 
against  you.  She  is  determined  to  make  the  best  of  her  bad  bargain 
and  to  marry  him  off-hand."  But  to  this  Bee  made  no  sort  of  reply 
and  it  may  be  doubted  whether  she  even  heard  the  wwds. 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

"BE   A  BRAVE  LITTLE  WOMAN." 

I  would  speak  of  his  chivalry—  for  I  can  call  i£  nothing  else—  in  daily  life;  a  chiv- 
alry which  clothed  the  most  ordinary  and  commonplace  duties  with  freshness  and 
pleasantness.  I  soon  discovered  that  au  unswerving  resolution  at.  all  times  and 
under  all  circumstances  to  spare  himself  no  trouble,  and  to  sustain  life  at  a  lofty 
level,  was  the  motive  of  this  chivalry.—  The  KcVL'rtnd  IF.  llan-isuiCs  opinion,  of 


LAUNCELOT  remained  silent  for  a  few  minutes  after  this.  What  word 
of  comfort  could  lie  essay  that  could  reach  the  half-stunned  brain  and 
heart,  that  seemed  unable  to  rcali/e  the  full  extent  of  the  blow?  If  only 
his  step-mother  were  here!  What  did  he  know  of  a  girl's  nature—  its 
possibilities  oi  self-torture,  its  want  of  discipline,  its  instinctive  abhor- 
rence of  pain?  lie  could  only  know  how  to  deal  with  himself;  from 
the  first  moment  that  terrible  trouble  had  fallen  upon  him,  he  had  told 
himself  that  no  spoken  sympathy  could  avail  to  comfort  him.  His 
strength  lay  in  silence,  his  self-respect,  his  peace  of  mind,  depended  on 
it.  People  may  guess,  may  suspect,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  but  the 
thing  shall  only  be  known  in  its  fullness  to  myself  and  my  God."  But 
as  he  looked  at  Bee's  strained  eyes,  wide  with  the  misery  he  could  not 
quite  realize,  he  doubted  whether  silence  would  be  equally  cllicacious  in 
her  case.  She  was  so  young,  and  youth  needs  to  give  expression  to  its 
thoughts.  With  a  delicacy  of  perception  that  few  men  woidd  have 
shown  under  the  circumstances,  he  had  refrained  from  any  loudly  uttered 
vituperations  against  the  man  \vho  had  wrought  all  this  wrong.  II  is 
words  had  been  few  and  temperate.  "  lie  has  treated  you  both  as  badly 
-ible,"  he  had  said;  and  then  he  had  given  it  as  his  opinion  that 
Oscar's  sin  had  been  greater  against  Miss  Stewart.  He  had  said  as 
much  as  this,  but  he  knew  better  than  to  break  the  bruised  reed  by  tell- 
ing Bee  that  the  man  she  loved  was  a  weak,  dishonorable  fool,  who, 
after  all  the  excuses  had  been  made,  was  most  certainty  selling  his 
birthright  of  honest  manly  choice  for  the  good  things  of  this  life.  If 
Miss  Stewart  had  been  poor,  would  he  have  been  so  sure  that  honor 
compelled  him  to  marry  her?  he  thought  bitterly.  Would  he  not  have 
kicked  over  the  traces  long  ago  and  jilted  her,  as  a-hundred  men  have 
jilted  girls?  But  on  this  point  lie  kept  silence  then  and  forever.  Bee 
woidd  discover  her  lover's  un  worthiness  for  herself  in  time;  any  attempt 
to  paint  him  in  his  true  colors  would  only  make  her  distrustful  of  her 
brother's  sympathy  and  turn  her  against  her  best  friend.  ^ 

So  when  he  spoke  at  last  there  was  nothing  galling  in  his  speech. 
"  Oh,  you  poor  little  child!"  he  said,  tenderly,  "how  1  wish  Madella 
were  here  to  talk  to  you!" 

The  tone,  more  than  the  words,  touched  her  frozen  brain,  and  th« 
tears  started  to  her  eyes. 

"  Does  mother  know?  I  should  like  to  go  to  her,  I  —  I  —  you  are  Very 
kind  and  dear,  Launce,  but  I  can't  stop  here.  I  —  "  and  here  the  tears 
began  to  flow,  and  Bee  hid  her  face  in  her  trembling  hands,  and  wept 
as  though  .Vier  young  heart  would  break. 

"Curse  the  scoundrel!"  muttered  Launcelot  between  his  teeth,  and 
then  he  repented:  "  No,  not  that.  I  will  be  neither  has  nor  any  man's 
judge.  '  Deliver!  us  from  evil,'  let  me  say  that  instead;"  and  then  he 
tried  to  Uke  liis  sister's  hand,  but  she  resisted,  still  weeping  passionate- 


218  ONLY    THE 

it   is  mother  1   want."  lie  heard  her  say  through  lief 

icar,  we  \vill  go  together— to-morrow  or  the  next  day,  if  you 
like.  ,1  enough  1"  IK-  moved  now.     You  must  let  me  fake 

vou.  ami   then    I   can   tell   Madella.     No,  she  does   not    know  yi-i 
Bee  ullered  a  faint  exclamation;   "  only  Pauline  and  1  know  at  present, 
but  1  will  show  hur  the  Idler  and  repeat  Miss  Stewart's  coin eisation, 
and  then  she  will  understand  what  to  say  to  you." 

"  Hut  you  will  not  speak  against  him  to  mother;  promise  me — promise 
me,  Launce,  that  you  wii; 

"  Have  I  been  so  hard  to  you  that  3rou  can  not  trust  mo,  nee?"  put- 
ting on  a  hurt  manner. 

""<>h.  no,  you  have  been  so  good,  so  kind.  You  have  said  as  little 
as  possible;  but.  of  course."  in  a  voice  of  despair,  "I  know  what  you 
think  about  it  all." 

"  .Never  mind  that.  Bee;  be  a.  brave  little  woman,  and  we  shall  love 
you  all  the  better  for  this."  Then  she  put  her  head  down  on  his 
shoulder,  and,  though  she  still  wept,  Launcelot  knew  those  quiet  tears 
would  only  relieve  the  oppressed  heart. 

"  I  must  write  to  him,"  she  whispered,  after  a  Mine.  "  I  must  am 
swer  that  letter." 

"  Is  it  absolutely  necessary,  Bee?" 

"  Yes— yes — of  course.  Do  you  not  see  how  unhappy  ho  is,  how 
ashamed  of  his  position?  If  I  only  send  three  words  I  must  tell  him  he 
is  forgiven.  Oh!  Lauuce. "  and  here  she  shuddered,  "  I  thought  in  a, 
few  years  I  should  have  been  his  wife,  and  he  is  going  to  marry  her— 
soon— directly,  and  he  does  not  love  her— he  loves  me.'' 

"  You  must  not  let  your  mind  dwell  on  that  fact;  it  will  yield  you 
small  comfort  in  the  future.  True,  the  sin  will  be  his,  but,  my  child," 
and  here  Launcelot's  voice  took  a  deeper  and  sadder  intonation,  "  you 
would  not  willingly — if  you  could  help  it,  1  mean — love  another  wom- 
an's husband?" 

"  How  am  I  to  unlove  him?"  she  returned,  almost  in  despair.  "  I 
do  not  mean  to  be  wicked,  but  how  am  I  to  put  away  Oscar  from  my 
life  and  thoughts." 

crtain  things  kill  love,"  he  returned,  gloomily.  "  I>y  and  by  you 
will  not  love  him,  but  it  will  not  be  time  that  will  cure  you;  no,  in  spite 
of  yourself,  in  spite  of  all  your  heart  is  telling  you  now,  a  time  will 
come  when  it  will  seem  a  sin 'and  a  shame  even  to  think  of  him  as  you 
are  thinking  now — when  you  will  set  yourself  with  the  whole  force  of 
your  will  to  efface  that  dearly  loved  image." 

"  Launce!"  and,  in  spite  of  her  own  misery,  I5ee  glanced  at  him  in  an 
'ruck  manner,  there  was  such  repressed  passion  in  his  voice;  but 
he  calmed  himself  at  once  at  her  look. 

"  My  dear  little  sister,  this  is  a  sad  world." 

"  A 'hateful  world,  you  mean." 

"  No,  not  hateful,  as  long  as  Madella  and  a  few  good  people  are  in 
it.     1  remember  when  1  was  your  age,  Bee,  and  some  trouble  had  be- 
fallen me,  a  friend  whom  I  loved  and  trusted  had  gone  wrong.     AVcll, 
I  remember  brooding  over  my  woes  like  H  great  sulky  baby.      I 
went,  so  i'ar  as  to  tell  Madella  that  I  was  sick  of  the  world,  and  1< 
to  die. " 

i-e,"  was  the  weary  answer,   and    Launcelot  knew   the 
thought  had  come  to  her  too. 

Veil,  Madella  smiled— you  know  her  way — '  You  must  be  very 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  219 

young,  my  clear  boy,  to  say  that.  It  is  what  all  young  people  say  when 
the  world  goes  wrong  with  them.  Older  people  know  that  it  is  pure 
selfishness.1"  What,  die  before  your  time  comes— before  your  work  is 
done?  leave  your  little  corner  of  the  vineyard  choked  up  with  weeds 
because,  forsooth,  you  are  too  tired  and  too  heart-sick  to  work?'  And 
then  the  dear  creature  opened  her  Bible  and  read  to  me  the  parable  of 
the  laborers.  '  And  you,"  too,  would  claim  your  penny  a  day,'  she  said, 
gently,  '  who  wish  to  lay  do\vn  your  tools  and  go  home  before  even  the 
noontide  heat  begins!  I  wonder  what  the  Master  of  the  vineyard  would 
say  to  that!'  Bee,  I  never  forgot  that  little  sermon.  'YVhatevcr  sorrow 
falls  to  my  share  in  life,  I  do  not  wMi  to  die  until  my  time  comes;  it  i* 
cowardly  to  shrink  even  from  prospective  pain.  '  I  wonder  what  the 
Master  of  the  vineyard  would  say  to  that!'  often  comes  into  my  mind 
when  I  hear  young  people  railing  against  their  circumstances." 

"  Oh,  Launce,  I  wish  I  were  good  like  you  and  mother:" 

"  Thank  God  instead  that  you  have  not  to  answer  for  your  brother's 
sins;  child  that  you  are,  what  do  you  know  of  a  man's  temptations?" 
and  then  again  lie  calmed  himself  with  dilliculty,  and,  kissing  her  fore- 
head, begged  her  not  to  talk  any  more,  but  to  go  in  and  rest;  and  she 
rose  obediently  and  left  him  alone  to  one  of  the  bitterest  hours  that  he 
had  ever  passed. 

But  the  foul  fiend  Despair  and  all  his  train  of  hideous  satellites — 
doubt,  mistrust,-  suspicion,  envy,  hatred,  and  all  unrighteousness — 
vanished  back  after  a  time  into  their  pit  of  darkness,  vanquished  by  the 
sturdy  honesty  and  courage  that  confronted  them. 

"  What  has  happened  is  by  the  will  of  God,  who  has  permitted  these 
sad  accidents  and  failures  for  His  own  wise  purposes.  To  Him  I  must 
commit  both  her  future  and  mine."  But  by  "  her,"  Launcelot  was  not 
speaking  of  Bee.  For  the  time  being  he  had  forgotten  her;  the  Hood- 
gates  of  passion  were  set  open,  and  strange  waters  drenched  his  soul 
with  their  salt  waves.  "All  Thy  waves  and  Thy  billows  have  gone 
over  me."  Ah,  not  all.  Launcelot;  only  such  a  portion  as  may  cleanse 
the  world-worn  spirit,  rebapti/.ing  it  with  a  bitter  but  most  healing  bap- 
tism. "The  Lord  sitteth  upon  the  flood,"  or,  as  the  revised  edition 
has  it,  "sat  as  king  at  the  Hood."  Oh,  the  fullness  of  meaning  in- 
volved in  that!  "  Yea,  the  Lord  sitteth  as  king  forever;"  and  then  fol- 
lows the  exquisite  benediction,  "  The  Lord  will  give  strength  to  His 
people — the  Lord  will  bless  Ilis  people  with  peace." 

Launcelot  did  not  tell  himself  this  in  so  many  words,  though  the  sor- 
row of  all  the  ages  could  have  found  expression  in  the  words  of  the 
shepherd-king;  but  in  a  dim  sort  of  way  he  was  living  up  to  them,  and 
by  so  doing  ennobling  himself  in  the  process. 

'  Suffer  as  he  must,  he  was  not  morbid;  when  he  told  himself  that  he 
had  not  sinned  consciously  for  a  single  moment,  that  his  love  for  Joan 
was  a  grief  and  a  mistake  and  utterly  useless  as  far  as  his  happiness  in 
this  world  was  concerned,  but,  as  he  knew,  no  sin,  he  was  .speaking 
absolute  truth.  He  was  a  man,  and  not  an  angel,  and  therefore  he  had 
not  foreseen  such  a  calamity.  But  for  what  followed,  his  daily  life, 
his  daily  thoughts,  in  what  mode  he  carried  that  cross  of  his — it  was  for 
these  things  he  was  responsible.  Here  was  the  battle-ground  where 
fiends  might  congregate,  but  for  the  future — his  future  and  hers — that 
most  precious  and  faulty  of  women — well,  God  must  take  care  of  His 
own,  thought  Launcelot,  feeling  utterly  baffled  and  wearied.  And,  lo 
and  behold,  the  demons  had  fled,  and  their  place  was  the  sunset  sky 
and  the  sweet  breath  of  firs  and  the  loveliness  of  a  world  that  even  man's 


220  ONLY    'I  KSS. 

sin  ran  not  spoil,  and  a  thought  of  peace  came  nestling  to  his  hai 

"  Yes.  it  will  be  over  one  day.     It  is  a  lianl  fight;  harder  than 
•that  poor  child  who  is  weeping  yonder  will  c\  man's 

strength  to  cope  with  it;  but  there  will  be  rest  by  and  by  when  tl 
conies  and  the  wages  are  paid.     Ami  I  wonder  \\hat  tli  of  the 

vineyard  will  say  when— when — "  But  biuncclot  did  not  finish  the 
sentence,  only  he  looked  into  the  crimson  clouds  with  their  edges  tipped 
•with  gold,  and  his  eyes  grew  calm  and  clear,  and  his  head  was  creel, 
and  then  he  thought  of  Ins  new  picture  and  smiled  at  his  own  (plaint 
fancies,  and  .-o  the  dark  hour  faded  from  his  memory. 

But  before  the  evening  had  passed  IK;  received  u  message  from  lice. 
She  had  shut  hei>elf  up  in  her  OWLI  room,  refusing  admittance  to  every 
one.  though  Pauline  had  pleaded  with  tears  to  lie  allowed  to  speak  to 
her.  When  Launcclot  obeyed  her  summons  he  found  the  tray  with  the, 
un tasted  food  still  on  the  threshold.  Pauline,  who  had  accompanied 
him  on  tiptoe,  shook  her  head  at  the  sight.  "  She  has  calen  nothing; 
she  will  be  ill,"  she  faltered:  for  to  her  healthy,  robust  org  <ni/atiou 
the  loss  of  even  one  meal  appeared  serious.  'People  mu>t  eat,  even 
when  they  are  in  trouble,  thought  Pauline,  this  being  the  creed  of  many 
well-meaning  simpletons.  But  Launcelot  knew  belter  than  Pauline 
here.  He  remembered  that  terrible  night  when  sheer  phys.ical  fai, 
had  driven  him  to  take  a  glass  of  claret  and  a  morsel  of  bread,  when 
the  sight  of  a  full  meal  would  have  turned  him  sick,  and  then  he  took 
a  small  roll  and  a  glass  of  wine  off  the  tray  and  begged  his  sister,  in  a 
whisper,  to  carry  (he  remainder  away. 

All  the  rooms  at  the  Witchens  were  pretty,  but  it  was  allowed  by 
everybody  that  Bee's  room  was  by  far  the  prettiest;  it  was  just  what,  a 
girl's  room  ought  to  be,  fresh  and  dainty,  and  full  of  graceful  souve- 
nirs. 

Bee  sat  by  the  window;  she  had  put  on  a  cream-colored  lea-gown, 
perhaps  for  coolness,  and  her  hair  was  pushed  away  from  her 
Launcelot  thought  she  looked  years  older  even  in  those  few  hours. 
"  There  it  is,  Launce,"  she  said,  holding  out  a  folded  paper.  "  I  have 
been  trying  all  this  time  to  write  it,  but  1  can  do  nothing  better,  and  I 
think  it  must  go  as  it  is." 

"  May  1  read  it,  Bee?" 

"  Oli,  yes,  you  may  read  it;  there  is  nothing  that  the  whole  world 
may  not  see.  Yesterday  we  belonged  to  each  other,  but  to-day  everv- 
thinu  is  changed,  but  at* least  we  shall  know  that  1  have  no  an^ef  against, 
him." 

"Mv  DEAR  OSCAR,"  it  began,— "  of  course  you  will  expect  an  an- 
swer to  your  letter;  but  when  I  try  to  write  there  seems  so  little,  that  I 

>y.     When  you  tell  we  that  we  must  have  nothing  more  to  do  with 
each   other,  that  you   and  I  must  say  good-bye   as   far   as  this  world  is 

rued,  it  seems  to  rue  that  there  'is  nothing  mure  to  be  said,     of 
course   1   am   dreadfully  unhappy,  but  you  do  not  need  me  to  tell  you 
that  any  girl  would  be  unhappy  when  she  has  received  such  a  i 
But  you  need  not  fear  any  reproaches  on   my  part;  1   have  forgotten 

ly  how  much   I   have  to    forgive.      If  you    have   done   wroi 

\  on  are  doing  right  now;  your  cousin  lias  the  first  claim  on 
and  I  do  not  wish  to  say  another  word  on  this  subject. 

"Good-bye,  dear  Oscar.  1  am  afraid  I  am  writing  coldly,  and  that 
this  letter  will  disappoint  you.  I  shall  be  sorry  for  that,  for  I  would 


OHLY    THE    GOVERKESS.  221 

like  to  comfort  you,  but  such  comfort  is  not  for  me  to  give;  still  1  shall 
pray  always  for  your  future  happh; 

"  Your  sincere  friend, 

"  BEATRIX  CHUDLEIGH.  " 
"  P.S.— God  bless  you!    Yes,  I  do  forgive!    I  do!" 

As  Launcelot  read  it  his  eyes  grew  misty.  "  It  is  too  good  for  him, 
Bee,  but  all  the  same  it  shall  go."" 

"  AVill  you  send  it  by  this  evening's  post?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  there  is  no  use  in  delay.  Well,  what  is  it,  dear?"  for  she 
was  looking  at  him  very  wistfully. 

"  I  was  thinking  of  mother.  When  will  you  take  me  to  her — to-mor- 
row?" 

"  Oh,  no,  not  to-morrow." 

"  Why  not?"  she  persisted,  in  a  fretful  voice.  But  Launcelot  evaded 
tin's  question;  lie  did  not  dare  to  tell  her  that  he  knew  she  would  be  un- 
lit to  travel  the  next  day,  so  he  pretended  to  turn  the  matter  over  in  his 
mind  while  he  broke  bread  into  the  wine  and  fed  her  with  his  own  hand 
as  though  she  were  a  baby.  "  I  am  thinking  about  it;  let  me  see  you 
finish  this,  and  then  I  will  tell  you  my  plans,"  he  said,  quietly,  and 
actually  she  obeyed  him  like  a  child. 

"  I  will  do  what  1  can  for  you,"  he  said  at  last;  "  to-morrow  would 
not  suit  me  at  all,  but  I  will  take  you  to  Eastbourne  on  the  following 
day.  I  will  write  to  Madella  by  this  evening's  post  to  tell  her  to  pack 
upv  and  join  us,  and  I  will  telegraph  to  Donaldson  to  get  these  rooms 
for  us;  we  were  to  have  the  refusal,  you  know.  1  could  stop  a  day  or 
two,  and  then  I  can  leave  you  and  Madella  together,  and  come  back 
here.  Will  that  suit  you,  Bee?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  suppose  so,"  and  then,  as  though  her  words  sounded  un- 
gracious,' she  added,  "  Thank  you,  dear  Launce,  for  arranging  it  all  so 
nicely;  1  want  mother,  and  I  would  rather  be  anywhere  but  here,"  and 
Launcelot  understood. 

He  had  reason  to  congratulate  himself  on  his  foresight  the  next  day, 
when  Pauline  came  down  and  told  him  that  Dee  was  suffering  with  a 
miserable;  sick  headache,  and  could  not  lift  her  head  from  the  pillow. 
"  She  lias  had  a  bad  night,  and  this  is  the  result,"  observed  Pauline, 
gloomily,  for  she  was  lull  of  angry  grief  on  her  sister's  account.  "  She 
sends  her  love  to  you,  Launce,  but  she  is  not  able  to  talk  at  present,  so 
onlv  Dossie  is  with  her  fanning  her  to  sleep." 

"  Dossie?" 

"  Yes.  Is  it  not  odd  that  Bee  should  have  such  a  fancy  for  the  child, 
when  she  was  so  against  your  bringing  her  into  the  house?  She  will 
let  Dossie  do  things  for  her  when  she  will  not  allow  Sybil  to  come  near 
her.  But  then  Sybil  is  so  noisy." 

"  I  don't  think  any  of  us  could  spare  Dossie  now,"  replied  Launce- 
lot. "  A  child's  influence  can  make  itself  felt  after  all.  I  think  Dos- 
sie's  great  charm  is  that  she  never  thinks  of  herself." 

"  Yes,  and  then  she  is  growing  so  pretty." 

"  Not  exactly;  Dossie  will  never  be  pretty,  not  even  when  she  grows 
up— and  she  is  growing  fast,  she  is  nearly  eleven  now;  but  she  will  be 
very  spirituelle-looking.  Her  face  has  great  capabilities;  she  has  a 
kundred  different  expressions  now."  But  this  was  beyond  Pauline. 

An  unexpected  visitor  called  that  afternoon.  Pauline  had  just  gona 
up  to  sit  with  Bee,  and  Launcelot  was  crossing  the  hall  on  his  way  to 
the  studio,  when  he  saw  Miss  Hamblyn  come  up  to  the  front  door,  and 


ONLY  THE 

\villiout  waiting  for  Fenwick  lie  ushered  her  gravely  into  the  drawing 
room. 

Miss  llamblyn  seemed  rather  confused  when  slie  saw  him:  her sereno 
self  i>  i  lu-r.  "  I  came  to  Bee  Bee,"  she  said,  hurriedly. 

"I  am  sorry,"  returned  Launeelot,  civilly.  ".Bee  has  a  headache 
jiinl  can  sec  no  one,  and  Pauline  is  with  her.  I  am  vexed  that  you 
should  have  this  long  journey  for  nothing." 

"  Is  IJee  ill?"  wiili  real  feeling  in  her  .voice.     "Oh,  I  dreaded  this; 
luit.  .Mr.  Chudleigh.  I  can  go  up  to  her,  can  I  not?    I  know  she  would 
;>ei  iully  after  \vhat  lias  passed." 

"  It  is  best  to  tell  the  truth.  Miss  llamblyn.  Bee  is  very  much  upset 
by  your  brother's  letter,  and  I  can  not,  allow  her  to  lie  agitated  by  any 
more  talk;  you  are  the  last  person  I  should  wish  her  to  see." 

"  You  arc  angry;  you  think  it  is  my  fault?"  she  asked,  quickly. 

"  Why  should  you  say  such  things?  I  am  ;,ngry  with  your  brother; 
he  has  not  behaved  like  a  gentleman"  He  lias  treated  two  women  bad- 
ly,  and  one  of  them  is  my  sister.  Any  man  would  feel  himself  a--rieved 
by  such  conduct." 

"  You  are  right:  Oscar  has  been  as  bad  as  possible;  it  is  his  nature  to 
flirt.     I  used  to  lecture  him.  indeed  I  did,  Mr.  Chudleigh;  but  he  would 
not  listen  to  me.     I  begged  him  not  to  flirt  with  Bee,  but  he  w. 
fatuated." 

"  A  word  from  you  would  have  put  a  stop  to  it,  Miss  Hamblyn,"  re- 
turned  Launcelot,  in  an  icy  manner. 

"  A  word  from  me!  why,  I  spoke  hundreds  of  words." 

"  Yes,  where  they  were  of  no  avail;  but  one  word  would  have  opened 
Bee's  eyes  and  prevented  all  this  misery.  If  you  had  only  mentioned 
Miss  Stewart's  name,  nothing  of  this  would  have  happened;  but  you 
1  (referred  to  indulge  your  brother  in  his  little  games,  and  to  see  your 
friend  sacrificed;  and  this  is  your  notion  of  friendship.  A  man  would 
not  treat  another  man  so." 

"  Mr.  Chudleigh,  how  can  you  be  so  hard  and  stern,  and  I  have  made 
myself  quite  miserable  about  Bee;  but  perhaps  I  ought  not  to  wonder 
that,  you  are  so  sore  about  it.  You  must  hate  the  sight  of  us.  I  think. 
Well,  it  is  no  use  talking,  so  I  may  as  well  go;  you  will  give  my  dear 
love  to  Bee,  will  you  not?*' 

"  I  did  not  wish  her  to  know  you  had  been  here.  Do  you  mind  my 
keeping  that  message  to  myself,"  Miss  llamblyn  ?" 

"Oh,  no;  I  see  what  you  mean.  Perhaps  I  had  better  not  come 
again  just  yet,  it  would  only  disturb  her.  I  am  very  sorry.  I  am  indeed, 
Mr.  Chudlcigh;  I  wish  it  had  happened  to  any  but  Bee. 

"  And  this  is  a  woman's  notion  of  friendship,"  thought  Launcelot,  a* 
he  Watched  the  tall  figure  recede  into  the  distance.  "  That  girl  Is  a 
humbug;  1  always  said  so."  And  then  lie  made  up  his  mind  that  he 
would  bring  Madella  round  to  his  opinion,  and  get  her  to  break  oil'  all 
acquaintance  with  the  Hamblyns, 

Launcelot  was  able  to  carry  out  his  plan,  for  the  next  dav,  when  tliev 
arrived  at  their  destination,  they  found  the  other  travelers '  had  already 
:iced  themselves   in   the  comfortable  lodgings.     Freckles  rushed 
down  :eet  them. 

it  i>  an  awfully  jolly  house,"  he  observed,  rapturously;   "  there  are 
>u<-h<-  and  six  easv chairs  in  the  drawing-room,  and   I   have  tried 
them  all  and  don't  know  which  to  choose.      What  a  lark-bringing 

JO  ahead." 
hat:/'  delicious  HUI,  \elaimed  Mrs.   Child- 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS. 

leigh,  as  Bee  hurried  up  to  her.  "When  I  got  your  letter,  Launce, 
telling  me  Bee  was  coming  too,  I  was  quite  excited.  Oh!"  a  soft,  long 
"  oh  "  of  infinite  meaning.  One  glance  at  the  poor  girl's  face  told  the 
mother  everything. 

"  Come  along,  Freckles;  show  me  where  the  luggage  is  to  go.  Which 
is  Bee's  room  and  which  is  mine?  I  want  you  to  help  me  with  my 
Gladstone.  Stay  here  a  moment,  I  left  my  bag  in  the  drawing-room." 
But  Launcelot,  as  lie  spoke,  closed  the  door  again  precipitately. 

One  glance  showed  him  what  he  wanted  to  know.  Bee's  bonnet  was 
off,  and  .she  was  sitting  on  the  couch  with  her  head  ou  her  mother's 
•boulder. 

"  Tell  me  all  about  it,  my  darling.  Of  course  I  see  you  are  unhappy; 
toll  your  mother  everything.  What  is  the  good  of  having  children  if 
one 'is  not  to  help  them  in  their  troubles!"  finished  Airs.  Chudleigh, 
fondling  her  girl's  hand  as  she  spoke. 

>-  li  is  good  for  us  that  God  made  women  so,"  thought  Lauucelot  as 
he  walked  slowly  away.  Hut  it  is  doubtful  what  he  meant  by  this 
rague  speech.  Was  it  of  IJee  he  was  thinking,  or  of  the  mother-love 
that  was  encompassing  her?  "  I  am  glad  I  brought  her,"  lie  said  to 
himself.  "  Of  course  she  will  be  unhappy  everywhere  for  a  time,  poor 
child!  but  she  will  }><•  less  unhappy  here."  And  then  he  resolved  that 
he  would  go  back  again  to  the  Witchens  as  soon  as  possible  and  begin 
his  picture. 

CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

"OH,  YES;  in:  «>MI;S  I.VKRY  SUNDAY." 

Hesmileil  as  men  smile  \\hen  they  will  not  speak, 

NSC  lit'  sunn-tiling  hitter  in  the  thought; 
And  still  I  feel  his  iiielruicliol  \ 
Look  judgment  on  me. 

ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING. 

LAUNCELOT  spent  three  days  at  Eastbourne,  and  then  he  came  back 

to  his  work. 

A  strange  stillness  seemed  to  permeate  the  Witchens.  Geoffrey  and 
Bernard  were  yachting  with  a  friend,  and  Pauline  spent  her  mornings 
in  the  school-room,  and  generally  walked  or  drove  with  the  little  girls 
in  the  afternoon;  while  Launcelot  worked  in  his  studio  from  morning 
to  evening,  only  indulging  in  a  gallop  or  a  six-mile  walk  before  his 
dinner. 

Now  and  then,  as  he  paced  the  long  shrubberies  and  saw  how  the 
trees  were  putting  on  their  gorgeous  autumn  tints,  and  watched  the  red 
and  yellow  leaves   flutter  to  his  feet,  he  told  himself  that  he  was  grow 
ing  old  with  the  year,  and  that  he  should  soon  attain  to  the  soberness  of 
middle  age. 

"  I  am  afraid  Paul  finds  me  a  dull  fellow,"  he  said  to  himself.  But 
Pauline  would  not  have  indorsed  this  opinion.  To  her  he  was  the  dear- 
est and  best  of  brothers;  she  thought  him  the  finest  company  in  the 
world:  his  little  jokes  were  miracles  of  wit  in  her  eyes;  and  she  formed 
her  opinions  on  his  in  the  most  unblushing,  irresponsible  way. 

"I  never  found  Launce  wrong  yet,"  she  would  say  triumphantly 
when  Bernard  argued  against  him.  No  wonder  Launcelot  thought 
Pauline  a  sensible  girl  and  was  honestly  pleased  with  her  society. 

Mrs.  Chudleigh  remained  away  three  weeks,  and  then  Launcelot  re- 
ceived a  letter  from  her  fixing  her  return  for  the  next  da/. 


2JH  ONLY    THE  .  KSS. 

"  1  Var  Fred  has  left  us."  she  wrote.      "  lie  tuul  Forbes  Cunningham 
truvi-lctl  together.      Forbes's  uncle  went  with  them  to  London, 
quite  easy  in  my  mind  about  Fred. 

urse  there  is  nothing  to  keep  me  ;my  longer  from  home,  und  I 
must  see  r>ern;ird  lie  fore  lie  returns  to  Oxford,  so  you  may  expect  me 
to-morrow  by  tin-  r»:3U  train  from  \Vaterloo.  I>car  Bee  will  not  be  with 
me:  she  has  decided  to  accept  the  Sylvesters'  invitation.  You  know 
how  often  they  have  asked  the  girls,  and  they  are  your  father's  cousins. 
They  live  in  the  prettiest  part  of  Yorkshire,  and  the  house  and  grounds 
are  charming,  and  then  the  eldest  girl  Rosalind  is  such  a  nice  girl,  and 
just  Bee's  age. 

"  I  think  the  change  will  do  Bcc  good:  it  is  just  the  break  she  needs, 
and  she  docs  dread  coming  home  so,  poor  darling!  On  the  whole,  sin- 
has  been  very  good  and  tries  not  to  fret,  but  of  course  one  sees  what 
she  suITers.  'it  has  been  a  trying  time  for  both  of  us.  There  is  nothing 
so  hard  to  a  mother  as  to  see  one  of  her  children  in  trouble  and  not  be 
a  I  ile  to  share  it.  Sometimes  I  think  Bee  will  never  be  the  <ame  girl 
again." 

"  You  have  wanted  me  to  look  after  you,"  was  Launcelot's  greeting 
when  he  saw  his  step-mother's  tired  face,  and  she  did  not  contradict 
him. 

"  I  alwaj's  want  you,  my  dear  boy,"  she  said,  affectionately;  "  but 
you  are  looking  thin,  Launce.  Pauline  tells  me  you  are  working  far 
too  hard." 

"  Paul  had  better  mind  her  own  business.  But  there,  I  won't  seold 
her;  she  has  been  a  good  girl.  She  has  given  Sybil  and  Dossie  regular 
lessons,  and  she  takes  them  out,  and  makes  them  as  happy  as  possible." 

"  Yes,  and  it  has  been  such  a  relief  to  my  mind,  for  I  was  far  too 
much  engaged  with  poor  clear  Bee  to  look  after  another  gover 

Then  a  cloud  came  over  Launcelot's  face,  and  he  changed  the  subject 
a  little  abruptly. 

"  How  long  will  Bee  stay  at  Craven?" 

"  Just  as  long  as  she  likes.     I  saw  Emmeline's  letter,  and  it  wa 
friendly  as  possible.     She  was  to  be  sure  to  take  her  habit,  for  there 
would  be  plenty  of  hunting,  and  she  hoped  Bee  would  come  prepared 
for  a  very  long  visit.     They  were  going  to  have  some  nice  people  stay- 
ing in  the  house,  and  they  wanted  to  get  up  private  theatricals." 

"  I  should  not  have  thought  Bee  would  care  for  all  that  gayety  ju-4 
now. ' ' 

11  Xo;  she  had  a  good  cry  when  Emmeline's  letter  arrived.  She  >aid 
it  would  be.so  hard  not  to  enjoy  anything,  1ml  all  the  same  she  made 
up  her  mind  to  go.  I  think  she  is  very  brave  over  her  trouble,  but  one 
can  see  h»w  deep  it  has  gone." 

"  Oh,  yes;  Bee  has  plenty  of  pluck:  she  is  far  too  proud  to  wear  the 
willow  in  public." 

"  Vr-v,  but  1  doubt  whether  she  will  ever  care  for  any  one  again. 
You  have  no  idea  how  fond  she  was  of  him,  poor  girl!  and  no  wonder. 
For  he  was  a  most  striking  looking  man,  and  there  was  something  very 
'ting  about  him.     And  then  he  was  so  devoted  to  her." 

"  A  pretty  sort  of  devotion!" 

'•  Yes;  of  course  he  is  utterly  worthless,  one  sees  that  now.  Oh, 
Laum-dot!  1  begin  to  wish  we  had  never  gone  to  Mentone.  J  am  so 
pioud  of  lice,  and  it  would  be  such  a  pleasure  to  me,  to  see  her  happily 
i:iani«'d.  I  always  wanted  my  girls  to  marry.  But  now  I  am  afraid  if 
she  ever  settles  if  will  be  late  in  life,  and  I  do  dislike  late  marriages." 


OKLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  225 

"  My  dear  Madella,  Bee  is  only  twenty." 

"  She  will  be  twenty-one  in  November." 

"  What  a  great  age!  And  I  shall  be  thirty -three  next  week.  I  don't 
think  one's  fate  is  irrevocably  fixed  at  twenty-one.  Very  few  girls 
marry  their  first  love,  so  cheer  up,  Madella.  I  dare  say  Bee  will  not  be 
an  old  maid,  after  all." 

Mrs.  Chudlcigh's  first  drive  after  her  return  was  to  South  Kensington, 
to  call  on  Joan. 

She  did  not  mention  her  intended  visit  to  Launcelot;  nevertheless,  h« 
knew  all  about  it,  as  he  put  her  into  the  carriage. 

"Shall  you  go  to  Truro  Square  first  or  last?"  he  asked,  coolly;  a 
question  that  nearly  took  her  breath  away,  for  how  could  he  guess  that 
Joan  was  in  her  mind? 

"  I  did  not  say  anything  about  it  at  luncheon,  did  I?"  she  asked,  in 
rather  a  bewildered  voice. 

"  No;  but  I  can  read  your  thoughts  sometimes.  You  are  very  trans- 
parent, Madella.  Please  give  my  kind  remembrances  to  Mrs.  Thorpe." 

Mrs.  Chudleigh's  first  thought  when  she  saw  Joan  was  that  she  had 
grown  more  beautiful  than  ever,  and  yet  there  was  something  different 
in  her  expression. 

What  could  it  be?  She  was  thinner,  and  certainly  did  not  look 
happy,  and  yet  she  was  less  depressed  than  on  the  former  visit.  Her 
manner  was  a  little  restless  and  excited,  but  she  greeted  Mrs.  Chud- 
leigh  with  her  old  affection,  and  seemed  unfeignedly  glad  to  see  her. 

"  This  is  so  good  of  you,  dear  Mrs.  Chudleigh,"  she  said  again  and 
again. 

"  Are  you  quite  well,  my  dear?" 

"  Yes,  quite  well.  You  know  there  is  nothing  ever  wrong  with  my 
health.  No  amount  of  misery  could  kill  me,  I  believe.  Mrs.  Medhurst 
has  not  a  grain  of  excuse  for  all  the  petting  she  gives  me;  but  then  the 
dear  old  lady  does  love.to  make  a  fuss." 

"  I  am  so  glad  she  is  good  to  you,  Joan." 

"Good  is  not  the  word;  she  spoils  me  dreadfully.  I  must  be  the 
greatest  prodigal  ever  known,  for  the  fatted  calf  is  daily  prepared  for 
me.  I  '  eat  the  fat  and  drink  the  sweet '  every  day.  Why  do  you  shake 
your  head?  Am  I  quoting  out  of  the  Good  Book?  Ah,  a  bad  habit. 
1  must  break  myself  of  that.  Still  I  do  as  I  like,  and  amuse  myself 
from  morning  to  night,  and  no  one  calls  me  to  order.  Just  think  of 
that!  Now,  Mrs.  Chudleigh,  before  I  talk  any  more  nonsense,  let  me 
ask  after  Fred." 

"  He  has  gone  back  to  Uppingham,  and  is  as  strong  as  ever,  dear  old  ' 
fellow!     Do  you  know,  Joan,  he  was  such  a  good  boy  all  the  time  he 
was  ill;  and  I  did  so  enjoy  nursing  him." 

"  Well,  I  always  said  he  was  the  nicest  boy  I  ever  knew.  I  was 
always  fond  of  Fred.  Pauline  came  to  see  me  twice  while  you  were 
away.  It  was  so  kind  of  her.  She  brought  Sybil  and  Dossie  the  first 
time,  and  they  all  stayed  and  had  tea,  to  Mrs.  Medhurst's  delight';  but 
the  second  time  she  came  alone— at  least  the  little  girls  were  in  the  car- 
riage." 

There  was  something  meaning  in  Joan's  voice,  for  Mrs.  Chudleigh 
said,  quickly,  "  I  suppose  she  wanted  to  tell  you  about  Bee?" 

"  Yes;  it  was  good  of  her  to  tell  me,  though  it  made  me  so  miserable. 
I  lay  awake  half  the  night  thinking  of  you  all.    I  knew  how  you  would 
take  it  to  heart,  and  Mr.  Chudleigh,  too",  for  he  is  so  proud  of  his  sisters; 
ft 


ONLY    1  i:SS. 

hut  I  always  know  how  it  would  ho.     I  warned  Mr.  f  hudleigh,  nnd 
1  tried  to  warn  Hoc,  hut  I  only  made  her  angry  with  mo." 
"  Launcelol  thinks  it  is  a  providential  escape  for  Jier.  " 
"  lie  is  riiiht.     I  never  had  any  opiniow  of  that  man,  and  then  that 
hard,  worldly  .sister  of  his  aided  and  abetted  him.     1  do  hope  lire  will 
have  nothing  more  to  do  with  her."     Then  Mrs.  rimdlcigh  with  much 
solemnity  informed  her  that  the  Hamblyns  had  heen  so  ollicion 
had  shown  such  had  taste  altogether  in  the  matter,  that  she  had  taken 
her  son's  advice,  and  had  written  to  Lady  llamblyn  telling  her  frankly 
that  she  thought  it  belter  to  hrrak  otf  the  acquaintance.     "  Nora  was  so 
perlinacious  tliat  J  was  obliged  to  doit,"  she  finished.      "  Slie  tri 
see  l>ee,  and  when  Laiincelot  prevented  it  she  wrote  to  her  once  or  twice 
'::g  to  he  allowed  to  foine.     They  were  very  injudicious  Icttc1 


she  spoke  slightingly  of  her  future  sister-in-law,  and  hinted  far  too 
plainly  about  poor  Oscar's  misery.  Even  Bee  felt  the  bad  ta-ie,  and 
oll'ered  no  remonstiance  when  1  spoke  of  breaking  off  all  communica- 
tion with  the  family." 

"  You  did  perfectly  right,"  returned  Joan,  with  warm  sympathy. 
"  lice's  fancy  for  Hiss  Hamblynwifl  soon  die  a  natural  death.  'I  always 
disliked  her—  a  cold,  worldly  'minded  girl,  who  thinks  of  nothing  but 
making  a  good  settlement.  It  is  just  like  their  meanness  to  take 
Stewart's  money  and  talk  against  her.  I  expect  she  is  fur  too  good  for 
them." 

"  Well,  it  has  heen  a  sad  business,"  observed  Mrs.  ('hudleigh,  with  a 
sigh;  "but  I  must  not  talk  only  of  my  own  affairs.  How  is  Mr. 
Thorpe?  I  suppose  he  has  been  to  see  you." 

"  Ivan?    Oh,  yes;  lie  comes  every  Sunday." 

"  Is  it  possible?" 

"  Well,  I  suppose  it  is  possible,  for  he  comes;"  and  here  a  naughty 
sparkle  came  into  Joan's  eyes;  "  and  he  always  takes  me  to  church." 

"  My  dear!" 

"  Yes;  is  it  not  a  clever  idea  of  his?    Really,  I  never  gave  Ivan  credit 
for  such  diplomacy;  you  have  no  conception  how  many  ditliculties  it 
<!ved." 

"  I  really  do  not  understand  you,  Joan;  please  tell  me  seriously  what 
you  mean." 

"  Well,  our  tcte-d-tetes  were  too  awkward,  and  when  Mrs.  Medhurst 

was  present  it  was  even  worse,  for  nothing  would  make  me  open  my 

lips.     I  used  to  see  Ivan  get  quite  pale  at  last  with  suppressed  nervous- 

so  one  Sunday  as  we  were  having  tea  he  said  rather  shortly  that 

Ave  had  better  go  to  church,  -and  ever  since  that,  we  have  gone  together." 

"  I  think  it  is  very  nice  of  him  to  take  you,  Joan." 

"  I  don't  know  about  the  niceucss,  but  it  was  extremely  odd.  1  could 
hardly  keep  myself  serious  as  we  walked  along  that  lirst  Sunday.  It 
seemed  exactly  as  though  I  were  a  young  woman  whom  Ivan  was  court- 
ing; it  was  my  Sunday  out,  and  we  were  walking  together  after  the 
manner  of  youtm'  men  and  young  women." 

"  My  dear  .Joan,  what  an  absurd  idea—  your  own  husband!" 

"  Ah,  hut  we  aie  strangers  novr.  and  do  not  know  each  other  a  bit; 
you  can  not  think  how  polite  Ivan  is  to  me.  He  asks  me  all  sorts  of 

'i'Mis  as  we  walk  along,  and  I  answer  them  all  like  a  dutiful  j( 
woman.     I  tell   him   where   I   walk,  and  what    books   1    read,  and  the 
amount  of  fancy  work  1  do.     I  even  described  to  him  the  design  fora 

oth  that  was  in  my  mind,  and  he  thought  it  would  be 
pretty." 


OtfLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  227 

Mrs.  Chudleigh  took  no  notice  of  the  tone  in  which  all  this  was  said; 
ihe  only  asked  quietly  what  church  they  attended. 

"  Oh,  St.  Barnabas.  Ivan  likes  it  best,  and  of  course  it  is  for  him  to 
choose;  he  is  alwaj's  vexed  if  I  don't  listen  to  the  sermon,  and  he  finds 
out  all  the  hymns  for  me,  and  we  often  sing  out  of  the  same  book,  and 
then  we  go  'home—  back  to  Truro  Square,  I  mean—  and  if  I  am  in  a 
good  temper  I  sing  to  them  after  supper." 

"  And  you  choose  your  husband's  favorite  songs?" 

Joan  only  blushed,  and  made  no  reply  to  this. 

"  hoes  not.  -Mr.  Thorpe  ever  speak  of  "himself,  Joan?" 

"  Of  himself?  Oh,  no,  I  never  give  him  the  opportunity;  he  has  the 

all  his  questions,  but 


to  catechise  me,  and  of  course  I  answer  all  his  questions,  but  1 
should  hardly  take  the  liberty  of  questioning  him  in  return." 

11  1  am  sure  he  would  like  to  be  questioned." 

"  Sometimes  he  speaks  of  his  work,  and  tells  me  about  any  nice  book 
he  is  reading,  but  I  am  careful  not  to  appear  too  much  interested."  But. 
here  she  stopped,  warned  by  the  reproving  look  on  Mrs.  Chudleigh's 
face. 

"  My  dear,  I  hope  I  did  not  hear  you  rightly." 

"  Why,  what  have  I  said?"  asked  Joan,  with  an  air  of  injured  inno- 
cence. 

"  That  you  took  care  not  to  appear  too  much  interested  in  your  hus- 
band's talk.  Oli,  Joan!  When  you  say  these  things  }rou  disappoint  me 
terribly,  ('an  anything  be  more  generous  than  your  husband's  be- 
havior, in  spite  of  all  your  unwifely  conduct,  in  spile  of  all  that  has 
passed  between  you?  He  is  setting  himself  patiently  and  quietly  to  win 
your  confidence;  he  is  trying  to  read  what  is  in  your  heart,  anil  whether 
lie  may  ever  hope  to  draw  you  closer  to  him;  and  this  is  how  you  treat 
him." 

Joan  hung  her  head  as  though  she  were  abashed  by  this  just  rebuke 
on  her  flippancy,  but  she  answered,  rather  sullenly  — 

"  I  can't  help  it.  How  am  I  to  behave  properly  to  Ivan  when  he 
keeps  me  at  this  distance?  Of  course  I  feel  I  am  on  my  probation,  and 
that  makes  me  worse." 

"  He  is  on  his  probation,  you  mean,  poor  fellow,  and  is  fast  losing 
heart,  I  should  say.  Ah!  it  is  all  very  well  for  you  to  make  your  little 
jests,  and  to  send  him  back  to  his  desolate  home  without  one  kind  look 
or  word  to  remember  all  the  week;  but  you  are  throwing  away  the  most 
precious  opportunity  in  your  life,  an  opportunity  of  being  reconciled  to 
your  offended  husband,  and  of  atoning  for  all  your  past  failures." 

"It  is  too  late  to  atone  for  them.  1  must  just  let  things  go.  I  can 
read  in  Ivan's  eyes,  in  his  every  word  and  action,  how  little  faith  he 
has  hi  me." 

"  My  dear,  that  is  just  a  bit  of  the  devil's  work.  He  knows  that 
only  pride  and  jealousy  are  keeping  you  two  apart,  though  neither  of 
you  will  confess  it,  and  so  he  tries  to  widen  the  breach  by  putting  mock- 
ing speeches  into  your  mouth.  He  knows  that  if  you  would  only  be 
like  little  children  again,  and  kiss  and  make  friends,  no  two  people 
w^ould  be  happier.  But  no,  you  hide  away  all  your  feelings  under  a 
jest." 

"  Don't  say  any  more,  dear  Mrs.  Chudleigh,"  pleaded  Joan,  with  a 
lovely  look  of  penitence.  "  I  know  I  have  treated  Ivan  very  badly,  that 
I  have  teased  instead  of  conciliating  him,  and  that  I  have  pretended  to 
misunderstand  all  his  hints  that  we  should  be  friends;  but  indeed  I  wrill 
behave  better  to  him  next  Sunday." 


228  ONLY    THE 

:ul  you  -will  question  him  u  litttle  about  tilings  that  yon  know  will 
interest  him?" 

"  Oh,  no;  I  can  not  promise  to  do  that,  but  it  will  no)  lie  hard: 
pride  that  keeps  me  silent — you  do  not  know  Low  afraid  I  am  of  Ivan. 
Sometimes  I  dare  not  look  at  him,  but  if  he  talks  to  me  I  will  show  my 
interest  in  every  possible  way,  and  I  will  not  tease  him  once — not  once 
— - i  will  promise  you  that."  ' 

"  Then  I  will  not  scold  you  any  more.  Now,  I  have  some  shopping 
to  do  for  Pauline:  would  you  like  to  come  with  me?  Perhaps  the  drive 
will  do  you  good."  And  as  Joan  joyfully  acceded  to  this,  they  spent 
the  remainder  of  the  afternoon  together. 

Hut  in  spite  of  her  engrossing  occupation,  Mrs.  Chudleigh  noticed 
two  things — that  wherever  the}'  went  looks  of  admiration  rested  on 
Joan's  charming  face,  and  that  the  girl  seemed  perfectly  unconscious  of 
this.  Her  mood  had  changed  from  vague  sadness  and  restle.-si  , 
almost  child-like  mirth;  she  reveled  in  the  sunshine,  the  movement; 
every  fresh  novelty  attracted  her.  "  How  happy  every  one  looks!"  she 
said  once;  "  sometimes  I  think  it  is  a  sin  to  be  a  miserable.  I  am  happy 
myself  because  I  am  with  you,  you  dear  woman!"  And  Joan  looked 
lovingly  in  her  friend's  face. 

Mrs.  Chudleigh  did  not  retail  any  of  this  conversation  to  her  son, 
neither  did  he  question  her,  except  very  briefly,  but  she  would  have 
given  much  to  know  Mr.  Thorpe's  opinion  of  those  Sundays. 

Lauucelot  could  have  given  her  no  information ;  by  tacit  consent  the 
two  men  saw  very  little  of  each  other.  Their  friendship  was  still  as 
deep  as  ever,  deeper  on  Mr.  Thorpe's  part,  as  he  realized  the  mingled 
generosity  and  delicacy  with  which  Launcelot  had  ignored  his  own 
trouble  in  the  attempt  to  insure  his  friend's  happiness.  Joan's  husband 
was  never  likely  to  forget  or  think  less  of  the  man  who  had  shielded 
her  faults  and  pleaded  so  nobly  on  her  behalf;  his  gratitude  to  Launce- 
lot was  true  as  his  own  nature.  "  There  is  nothing  1  would  not  do  for 
him;  but  he  is  right — we  are  better  apart  just  now,"  Mr.  Thorpe  said 
to  himself.  "  If  Joan  ever  comes  back,  he  will  see  then  what  he  is  to 
both  of  us."  But  here  he  sighed  bitterly,  for  the  doubt  lay  heavy  in 
his  mind,  would  she  ever  come  back? 

Alas!  those  Sundays  were  fast  becoming  the  torment  and  delight  of 
his  life;  through  the  week  he  counted  the  tours  until  he  saw  her  again, 
and  yet  he  never  left  her  without  that  miserable  numb  feeling  of  disap- 
pointment, 

AY  hat  was  the  use  of  gazing  at  her  loveliness  if  he  could  not  see  one 
softened  look  on  that  fair  face,  when  light,  mocking  words  an- 
his  most  serious  words,  when  she  would  not  be  grave  or  earnest  for  a 
moment  unless  they  were  alone  together,  and  then  she  froze  into  a 
statue? 

It  was  just  as  though  she  said  to  him,  "  Yes,  you  are  my  husband, 
and  I  can  not  refuse  to  obey  you;  but  you  shall  have  nothing  but  pas- 
sive obedience  from  inc.     I  will  not  try  to  understand  your  wishes,     I 
will  talk  or  be  silent  as  I  like.     I  will  not  be  coaxed  into  any  show  of 
!  will  be  absolutely  free  to  follow  my  own  whims." 

ue.  I  believe  she  loathes  the  very  sight  of  me,  or  she 
would  not  treat  me  so."  And  actually  that  hard,  self-repressed  man 
put  down  his  head  on  the  table  and  cried  like  a  child  with  the  sheer 
hop  <>!'  it  all. 

Mis.  Chudleigh   paid  -loan   another  visit  during  the  following  week. 
.iling  at   a  house  just  by,  and  she  thought  she  would  spend 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  229 

half  an  hour  with  the  girl  and  see  if  her  lecture  had  worked  any  benefi- 
cial results. 

She  found  Joan  in  the  pretty  little  sitting-room  that  had  been  allotted 
to  her  private  use;  she  was  working  at  her  embroidery-frame,  but  looked 
rather  pale  and  subdued.  As  usual  she  brightened  up  at  the  sight  of 
her  friend,  and,  in  the  bustle  of  finding  her  a  comfortable  seat,  ringing 
for  tea,  and  waiting  on  her,  asking  questions  all  the  time,  she  began  to 
look  more  like  herself. 

"  Yes,  I  have  everything  I  want,  so  please  sit  down.  1  can  not  May 
long,  so  we  must  get  our  talk  over  quickly.  Did  your  husband  «-n  V- 
last  Sunday,  my  dear,  and  did  you  keep  your  promise?" 

"  I  had  no  chance,"  returned  Joan,  in  rather  a  depressed  voice,  and 
then  she  tried  to  pluck  up  a  little  spirit.  "  The  young  woman  was  on 
her  host  behavior,  but  the  young  man  played  truant." 

"  Do  you  mean  Mr.  Thorpe  never  came?" 

"  No,  and  he  is  not  coming  next  Sunday,  or  the  Sunday  after.  There, 
you  ma}r  read  his  letter  if  you  like.  Oh,  there  is  nothing  that  you  may 
iiot  see,"  as  Mrs.  Chudleigh  hesitated. 

"  MY  DEAR  JOAN, — I  am  sorry  to  tell  you  that  there  is  no  possibility 
of  our  meeting  for  the  next  three  or  four  weeks;  a  very  unexpected 
piece  of  business  calls  me  to  Dublin,  and  I  shall  be  detained  there  for  at 
least  a  fortnight.  I  am  sending  you  the  name  of  my  hotel  in  case  you 
care  to  write  to  me.  I  need  not  tell  you  that  it  will  be  a  great  pleasure 
to  me  to  receive  any  such  letter. 

"  I  must  let  you  know,  too,  that  your  subscription  to  Mudie  is  paid, 
80  you  may  send  at  once  for  any  books  you  wish,  and  I  have  oidcred 
the  music  for  you.  Pray  tell  me  anything  more  that  you  need.  I  want 
you  to  understand  that  it  is  always  a  satisfaction  to  me  to  gratify  your 
wishes.  1  have  a  good  income  now,  and  there  is  no  necessity  to  deny 
yourself  anything.  Please  treat  my  purse  as  your  own  from  this  mo- 
ment. 

"  I  remain 

"  Your  affectionate  husband, 

"IVAN  THORPE." 

"  Oh,  Joan!  what  a  kind  letter!    You  will  answer  it,  will  you  not?" 

"  I  suppose  I  must,  but  it  is  very  provoking.  It  makes  me  so  nerv- 
ous to  write  to  Ivan.  Ilis  sentences  are  stiff,  but  mine  will  be  stiller 
still.  Of  course  I  must  thank  him  for  the  books  and  the  music,  for  I 
know  they  have  given  him  trouble,  but  I  wish  he  had  not  mentioned 
his  purse." 

"  My  dear,  he  intends  you  to  assert  your  rights." 

"  Oh,  but  I  have  no  rights,"  she  returned,  hurriedly,  and  her  manner 
was  a  little  forced;  "  and  I  will  not  help  myself  to  any  of  his  money. 
I  have  plenty  of  my  own,  and  I  shall  tell  him  I  want  nothing — nothing 
at  all — and  I  shall  sign  myself  his  dutiful  wife." 

"  I  think  that  expression  will  hurt  him;  you  see  he  has  put  '  affection- 
ate '  in  his  letter." 

"  And  I  am  to  follow  his  lead  like  a  little  sheep?  No,  thank  you;  I 
must  write  my  letter  my  own  way,  but  it  shall  be  a  very  civil  letter,  and 
perhaps  I  shall  tell  you  last  Sunday's  text.  Oh,  no,  I  forgot,"  and 
here  Joan  blushed  up  to  her  eyes,  and  began  to  laugh,  neither  would 
she  repeat  the  text  for  Mrs.  Chudleigh 's  benefit— behavior  that  sorely 
puzzled  that  lady. 


230  ONLY  Tin:   COVKKXESS. 

But  in  her  own  mind  she  was  convinced  -frbnt  Joan  missed  the  exeile- 
ini'iit  of  tlioso  Sundays;  Ilicy  gave  a  soil,  of  piquancy  and  y.rst  to  tlio 
remainder  of  the  week.  .Most  likely  her  power  of  tormenting  her  hus- 
band gave  her  pleasure,  or  perhaps',  as  Mrs.  Chudleigh  charitably  sus- 
pected, >lie  was  disappointed  at  not  carrying  out  her  uood  resolutions. 

"  I  shall   have  forgotten   them   by  the   lime   Ivan  comes  home, 
said,  a  little  defiantly,  "and  then 'you  will  have  to  give  me  another 
lecture." 

What  was  to  be  done  with  such  a  provoking  creature?  Perhaps  .Mrs. 
Ohudleigh's  way  was  the  best,  after  all;  for  she  took  .loan's  face  be- 
tween her  hands  and  looked  into  the  girl's  eyes  until  they  dropped 
under  their  black  lashes. 

"That,  is  right,  my  child;  don't  be  ashamed  of  letting  me  see  that 
you  miss  your  husband,  ;i  noble  creature  such  as  he  is  ought  to  be 
missed.  Let  him  read  the  welcome  on  our  facftj  he  will  need  no  words, 
Joan — only  just  that  look  in  your  eyes  to  make  his  heart  jump  for  joy." 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 
"JOAN  —  REALLY  —  JOAN!" 

Pale  was  the  perfect  face ; 
The  bosom  with  long  sighs  labor'd;  and  meek 
Seem'd  the  full  lips,  and  mild  the  luminous  eyes, 
And  the  voice  trembled,  and  the  hand. 

She  said 

Brokenly,  that  she  knew  it,  she  had  fail'd 
In  sweet  humility;  had  failed  in  all. 

TENNYSON'S  Princess. 

ABOUT  three  weeks  after  this,  Launcelot  was  walking  over  the  bridge 
one  afternoon  when  he  encountered  Dr.  Maxwell,  and  they  slopped 
simultaneously. 

"  Why,  Maxwell,  you  are  quite  a  stranger.  When  are  you  coming 
up  to  dine  with  us?" 

"  Oh,  you  must  not  ask  me  yet.  I  am  terribly  busy — several  bad 
cases.  By  the  bye,  1  suppose  yoii  are  on  your  way  to  see  poor  Thorpe?" 

"  Poor  Thorpe!  what  on  earth  do  you  mean?" 

"  What,  have  they  not  told  you?" 

"  I  have  heard  absolutely  nothing." 

"  Then  I  am  afraid  you  will  be  shocked  to  hear  that  poor  Miss  Thorpe 
met  with  a  terrible  accident  last  night.  You  know  what  a  fog  we  had. 
"Well,  on  crossing  the  road  from  the  station  she  was  knocked  down  by 
a  van. ' ' 

"  Good  heavens!" 

"  It  is  a  bad  affair;  there  are  no  bones  actually  broken,  though  she  is 
cut  about  and  contused,  and  we  are  not  sure  that  there  is  not  internal 
mischief.     Happily,  her  face  and  the  upper  part  of  her  body  ha1 
capcd,  but   the  worst   part  is   that  she  was   knocked   against   the  curb- 
Btone,  and  the  spine  has  received  severe  injury." 

Launcelot  was  silent  from  sheer  feeling,  but  at  last  he  put  the  ques- 
tion— 

"  What  is  it  you  fear — that  she  will  die?" 

"  No,  that  she  will  not  walk  again.  We  have  just  had  Montague 
down,  and  ibis  is  hl8 -Opinion*  too.  And  here  Dr.  Maxwell  explained 
the  case  to  Launcelot  in  technical  language,  giving  him  their  reasons  for 


ONLY    THE    GOVEENESS.  231 

fearing  paralysis  of  the' lower  members.  "Montague  will  be  down 
again  in  a  few  days,  and  by  that  time  we  shall  know  how  far  the 
patient  is  internally  injured. >J 

"  Does  Thorpe  know  all  this?" 

"  Yes,  and  of  course  he  is  dreadfully  distressed.  He  keeps  saying 
that  it  would  be  better  for  her  to  die  at  once  than  lead  this  death  in  life; 
but  we  have  no  choice  in  such  matters,"  finished  Dr.  Maxwell,  with  ;i 
faint  shrug.  "  I  tell  him  that  it  is  very  unlikely  Miss  Thorpe  will  make 
an  old  woman,  and,  strange  to  say,  that  was  the  only  speech  that  seemed 
lo  comfort  him." 

"  I  must  go  to  him  at  once." 

"  Very  well,  I  will  walk  with  you  to  the  door.  I  iiever  told  you  that 
fortunately  I  was  passing  just  after  the  accident  happened,  and  I  helped 
to  carry  Miss  Thorpe  into  the  house." 

"  And  you  arc  attending  her?" 

"  Yes;  "but  of  course  I  wished  for  a  consultation.  There  were  com- 
plications that  made  me  fear  for  the  result.  Charlotte  came  over  last 
night,  but  we  have  a  nurse  now;  but  I  tell  Thorpe  she  will  never  be 
able  to  do  her  work  single-handed.  The  patient  will  need  watching 
night  and  day  for  a  time. " 

"  Is  she  conscious?" 

"  Oh,  yes;  her  head  was  untouched;  but  she  has  hardly  spoken,  and 
seems  in  great  suffering.    That  points  to  internal  mischief.    She  1" 
her  brother  to  go  down-stairs,  and  seemed  anxious  that  he  should  be 
spared  anything  painful,  and  then  she  thanked  Charlotte  for  coming  to 
her,  and  that  was  all." 

"  Did  the  consultation  seem  to  disturb  her?" 

"  No;  she  was  very  patient  under  Montague's  examination.  '  I  sup- 
pose it  is  very  serious ?'  she  said  to  him.  But  he  evaded  her  question. 
1  do  not  know  her  well,  but  I  should  say  she  had  a  strong,  self-reliant 
nature.  Here  we  are  at  Xo.  8,  and  I  can  see  Mr.  Thorpe  is  in  his  study. 
Tell  him  I  shall  look  in  about  live." 

"This  is  a  bad  business,  Merton,"  observed  Launcelot,  when  the 
house-maid  opened  the  door.  She  was  an  old  confidential  servant,  and 
Alis^  Thorpe  was  much  attached  to  her. 

"  Yes,  indeed,  sir — my  poor  mistress!  Who  would  have  thought  of 
such  a  thing  happening?  I  am  thankful  that  you  have  come  to  see 
master,  for  he  was  in  a  terrible  way  yesterday.""  And  Merton,  who 
looked  as  though  she  had  not  closed  her  eyes  all  night — which  indeed 
was  the  case— knocked  at  the  study-door. 

"  So  you  have  heard?"  was  Mr.  Thorpe's  greetingas  Launcelot  silent- 
ly wrung  his  hand. 

"  Yes,  I  have  heard.  I  met  Maxwell  on  the  bridge  just  now  and  he 
told  me,  and  then  I  came  at  once.  I  wish  you  had  sent  for  me  last 
night,  Thorpe." 

"  My  dear  fellow,  what  could  you  have  done?  Women  have  much 
the  best  of  it  in  one  way:  they  can  make  themselves  useful  in  an 
emergency  when  a  man  has  simply  to  stand  aside  " 

"  Oh,  I  should  have  found  something  to  do;  at  least  you  would  not 
have  been  left  lonely.  I  can  not  bear  to  think  of  the  night  you  must 
have  passed;  but  of  course  }rou  had  Maxwell?" 

"  Yes;  and  nothing  could  exceed  his  consideration;  and  then  Miss 
Maxwell  came  and  set  up  with  Merton.  I  call  that  Christian  charity." 

"  Yes,  she  is  a  good  creature." 

"  I  suppose  Maxwell  told  you  all.     As  soon  as  the  telegraph  offic« 


ONLY    TIIF    GOVERN! 


'[K-n  lie  telegraphed   to   I>r.  Montague.  and  also  for  a  mirsr 
h;is  just  arrived,  and  .Miss  Maxwell  has  gone  home." 

"  I  am  dad  you  had  a  consultation.     Montague  is  a  first-rate  man." 

"  Ah.  hut  his  skill  can  avail  nothing  hcri'.  Think  of  my  poor  Raehel 
condemned  to  such  a  hideous  doom  —  partial  paralysis,  that  is  what  they 
fear.  Think  what  that  means—  to  be  as  helpless  as  an  inl'am!  When 
they  told  me  what  they  feared,  I  felt  that  I  would  rather  have  heard  her 
death-warrant.  What  has  she  done  that  such  a  punishment  should 
come  upon  her?" 

Launcelot,  was  silent,  but  certain  words,  spoken  by  a  Divine  Teacher, 
came  into  his  mind:  "  Think  ye  that  these  Galileans  were  sinners  alovo 
all  the  Galileans  because  they  'have  sull'ercd  such  things?"  Hut  he  did 
peak  them.  They  were  both  God-fearing,  religious  men,  but  it 
would  not  have  been  c;isy  to  either  of  them  to  speak  of  what  lay  so  deep 
in  their  nature.  So  he  only  put  his  hand  on  Mr.  Thorpe's  shoulder  and 
said,  quietly  — 

"  Tilings  may  be  better  than  you  think,  Thorpe."  But  the  other  only 
shook  his  head  despondently. 

"  Of  course  we  all  have  our  faults,  and  Rachel  has  hers.  Things 
have  not  been  quite  comfortable  between  us  for  the  last  two  mouths, 
but  '  all  the  same  she  was  my  best  friend.  You  at  least,  Chudleigh, 
know  what  wre  have  been  to  each  other." 

"  Yes,  I  know." 

"  And  now  to  be  told  that,  as  far  as  this  world  is  concerned,  her 
work  is  over:  and  after  such  an  active  life,  too!  She  has  been  the  main- 
spring of  that  society  ever  since  it  was  formed,  and  what  will  they  do 
without  her?  I  have  known  trouble  enough,  God  knows,  of  late,  but 
when  this  happened  last  night  I  felt  as  though  my  cup  of  bitterness 
were  brimming  over." 

"You  must  try  to  bear  up,  Thorpe."  But  as  Launcelot  spoke  he 
felt  that  his  friend  was  speaking  the  truth,  and  that  his  cup  was  literally 
overflowing  with  bitterness.  "There  were  lines  on  his  face  and  fresh 
streaks  of  gray  in  his  hair  that  had  not  been  there  two  months  ago;  and 
now.  because  he  had  not  suffered  enough,  as  he  told  himself,  his  faith- 
ful friend  had  been  struck  down  at  his  \side  in  the  very  fullness  of  life 
and  energy,  and  the  deep  tide  of  his  brotherly  love  and  pity  washed 
away  all  the  remembrance  of  the  injury  she  had  wrought,  and  he  could 
only  think  of  her  as  the  devoted  sister  whose  care  had  saved  his  life 
when  ho  was  a  sickly  boy. 

"  Yes,  I  must  bear  up,  for  she  will  need  me,  poor  Rachel!"  he  said, 
more  in  answer  to  his  own  thoughts  than  to  Launcelot's  little  speech. 
"  She  has  no  one  but  me.  When  I  was  a  little  fellow  she  gave  up 
everything  to  devote  herself  to  me.  Night  and  day  she  never  left  me, 
and  she  was  a  young  girl  then;  so  it  is  my  turn  now  to  wait  upon  her." 

•    I  only  trust  that  she  may  be  spared  suffer!] 

"  Oh,  ff  they  could  tell  us  that!  but  they  do  not  know  themselves. 
Whatever  she  has  to  bear  she  will  bear  without  complaint,  but  her  life 
will  be  just  a  martyrdom." 

"  Try  and  take  a  more  hopeful  view  of  things,  Thorpe." 

"  I  d'o  try,  but  I  think  anything  like  hope  is  crushed  out  of  me.  No; 
Itaehel  ami  I  must  dree  our'  weird  to  the  hitter  end." 

Then  it  was  that  a  thought  came  to  L  iiineelot,  one  of  those  impulses 
that  seem  like  an  inner  inspiration.      "Co  to  her,''  it  .said;   "  11* 
final  appeal."     And  his  cheek  Hushed,  and  then  he  took  out  his  watch 
and  looked  at  it. 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  233 

"  I  am  afraid  I  must  leave:  you,  Thorpe,  but  I  shall  be  here  to-mor- 
row. I  wish  you  would  give  me  something  to  do  for  you." 

"  There  is  nothing,  nothing;  but,  all  the  same,  it  does  me  good  to  see 
you.  I  hoped  you  would  have  stayed  with  me." 

"  I  have  some  business  but  I  may  possibly  come  back;  do  not  expect 
me,  though.  You  will  be  sure  to  see  me  to-morrow.  Maxwell  will  be 
here  directly— lie  told  me  to  say  so."  Then  Launcelot  walked  away  in 
the  direction  of  the  station,  and  Mr.  Thorpe  went  back  to  his  study. 

Launcelot  took  the  train  to  South  Kensington,  and  then  jumping  into 
a  hansom  had  himself  driven  to  Truro  Square.  He  found  Joan  alone  in 
the  drawing-room.  Mrs.  Med hurst  had  a  cold  that  conlined  her  to  her 
own  room. 

She  was  evidently  surprised  to  see  Launcelot,  and  her  color  rose  at 
the  sight  of  him. 

"  You  are  the  last  person  I  expected  to  see,  Mr.  Chudleigh!"  she  said, 
trying  to  appear  at  her  ease.  "  AVhen  I  heard  wheels  I  made  up  my 
mind  that  it  was  Mrs.  Cliudleigh  or  Pauline." 

"And  of  course  you  are  disappointed,"  with  an  effort  to  throw  off 
his  nervousness. 

"  Oh,  no.  I  am  very  pleased  to  see  you.  It  is  so  long  since  we  met, 
and  you  will  be  able  to' tell  me  all  the  news.  I  am  longing  to  hear  how 
Bee  gets  on  with  the  Sylvesters." 

"  Very  well,  I  believe.  She  rides  a  good  deal;  but,  Mrs.  Thorpe,  I 
have  come  upon  rather  a  serious  errand.  Do  you  know  your  sister-in' 
law  has  met  with  a  sad  accident?" 

"  I  Rachel?" 

"Yes.  I  only  heard  of  it  two  hours  ago,  and  I  went  at  once  to  Priory 
Road.  Your  poor  husband  is  in  great  trouble,"  and  then  he  gave  her 
an  account  of  his  interview  with  Dr.  Maxwell  and  his  subsequent  visit 
to  Priory  Road. 

Joan  became  very  pale  as  she  listened  to  him;  her  lips  twiched,  and 
the  tears  came  into  her  eyes. 

<lOh,  how  dreadful!  I  never  heard  anything  so  shocking.  Poor 
Rachel!  and  she  will  never  walk  again.  And  she  suffers  too,  you 
say?" 

"  Yes,  they  fear  she  is  internally  hurt." 

"  Poor  creature!  Oh,  I  am  more  sorry  for  her  than  I  can  say;  and 
Ivan  takes  it  badly?" 

"  Very  badly,  It  has  been  such  a  shock  to  him,  you  see.  He  looks 
wretched.  I  suppose  he  did  not  sleep  last  night,  and  they  are  all  so 
busy  with  her  that  they  can  not  attend  to  his  comfort.  He  looked  abso- 
lutely ill,  poor  fellow!  there  was  quite  a  shrunken  look  about  him." 

Launcelot  was  certainly  not  mincing  matters,  for  he  was  determined 
to  put  things  in  their  strongest  light  before  Joan,  but  he  was  hardly  pre- 
pared for  the  result  of  his  words. 

"  Oh!"  she  said,  bursting  into  tears,  "  do  you  think  I  may  go  to  him? 
Would  he  be  very  angry  if  he  saw  me?" 

"Angry,  my  dear  Mrs.  Thorpe— why?  I  have  come  here  with  the 
express  purpose  of  asking  you  to  come  back  with  me." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  Ivan  has  sent  for  me?" 

"  No,  I  can  not  say  that;"  but  he  was  sorry  to  see  how  the  eager  light 
died  out  of  her  eyes  at  his  words.  "  Your  name  was  not  mentioned  be- 
tween us;  but  as  he  talked  to  me  of  his  trouble  the  thought  came  into 
my  mind  that  I  would  come  and  tell  you  how  things  were." 


234  OXLY    THE 

"  You  are  very  good—  very  kind  to  li;i\  -e  taken  all  this  trouble;  but, 
Ivan— oh.  Mr.  Chudleiuh,  1  am  afraid  if  li"  should  be  fin 

"  lie  A\  ill  not  In-  angry." 

4i  I  low  do  you  know?  I  am  not  f9rgiven  yet.  I  think  it  is  rather  i. 
bold  tiling  for  me  lo  do." 

"  What,  to  go  to  your  husband  when  he  is  in  trouble?" 

If  In-  is  still  oiVended  with  me;  besides,  he  will  be  thinking  of 
her  now,  and  he  will  not  want  me." 

"  .Mrs.  Thorpe,  if  I  were  you  I  should  go." 

••  Why'.'" 

"  IVeausc  it  is  your  duty  to  be  with  your  husband,  and  because  he  is 
raiinir  out  his  noble  heart  with  sorrow  and  loneliness.  Never  mind 
whether  he  is  angry  or  not.  Just  listen  to  your  woman's  heart  that  is 
prompting  you  to  go  to  him." 

"  1  Want  to  go,  =  8he  whispered.     "  I  do  not  feel  I  can  keep  away." 

"Will  you  put  on  your  bonnet  then?  and  I  will  take  you.  I'lmve 
kept  my  hansom,  so  we  shall  be  at  the  station  in  a  few  minutes.  Do 
not  delay.  Please  go  and  get  ready."  And  as  she  stood  irresolutely 
by  her  chair  he  took  her  hand  and  led  her  to  the  door.  "  Do  not  keep 
me  waiting,"  he  said,  smiling  at  her,  and  she  went  upstairs  as  obedi- 
ently as  a  child. 

"  God  bless  her!  she  has  a  good  heart,  and  it  belongs  to  her  hus- 
band," thought  Launcelot,  as  he  went  back  into  the  room.  And  as  he 
paced  up  and  down  he  blessed  her  again  in  his  inmost  soul  that,  in  spite 
of  all  the  sorrow  she  had  caused  him,  she  had  yet  left  her  image  pure 
and  unstained  in  his  mind.  "  I  always  said  she  was  good,  in  spite  of 
all,"  he  said,  triumphantly,  as  though  this  thought  were  his  sole  com- 
fort. 

Joan  hardly  spoke  during  their  journey,  but  sat  quiet  and  subdued  in 
her  corner  of  the  railway  carriage.  Now  and  then  the  wide,  beautiful 
eyes  had  a  scared  look  in  them,  but  she  did  not  again  say  she  was  afraid, 
only  as  they  walked  down  Priory  Road  in  the  November  dusk  she  sud- 
denly touched  Lauucelot's  arm. 

"  Are  you  coming  in  with  me?" 

"  Well,  no;  that  would  hardly  do." 

'  1  suppose  not.     Dp  you  mind  walking  up  and  down  for  a  few  min- 
I  know  it  is  childish  of  me  to  ask  you,  but  it  will  give  me  more 
courage  if  I  feel  you  are  just  outside." 

"  Very  well.  I  will  be  on  guard  for  the  next  quarter  of  an  hour — 
not  longer,  remember." 

"  No,  a  quarter  of  an  hour  will  satisfy  me.  If  he  send  me  away,  I 
shall  join  you  before  that." 

"  lie  will  not  send  you  away." 

"  Don't  be  too  sure  of  that.     There,  I  have  actually  forgotten  my 
—how  absurd!    Did  you  notice  the  omission,  Mr.  Chudleigh? 

l>ut  Launcelot,  assured  her  gravely  that  he  had  noticed  nothing,  and 
then  he  set  open  the  high  iron  gate  and  rang  the  bell  for  her.  He  heard 
the  servant— it  was  not  Merton— aat  .loan's  name,  but  he  did  not  catch 

11  disl  not  give  her  name.     "  Your  master  knows  me,"  she  said, 
quickly,  and   she  walked   toward   the  study.     A  hesitating   knock 
followed    by  a  .somewhat  drowsy  "  Come  in,"  and  without  wailin 

;rage  to  oo/.e  out  Joan  opened  the  door. 

Mr.  Thorpe  was  sitting  by  the  fire;  perhaps  he  had  been  asleep,  for 
•  ked  heavy  and  da/ed,  and  he  made  no  attempt  to  rise  from 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  235 

his  chair  when  he  saw  Joan.  The  pule  hagganhu'ss  of  his  face  iilUvl 
her  with  dismay.  Laimcelot  was  right;  he  certainly  looked  ill. 
"  Always  the  same  dream,"  she  heard  him  mutter;  "she  comes  in  at 
that  door  and  looks  at  me." 

"  It  is  really  Joan — it  is  no  dream — wake  up,  Ivan,"  she  said,  coming 
closer  to  him,  but  not  venturing  to  touch  him;  then  he  gave  a  great 
start. 

"  Joan — really — Joan!  and  here!" 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  taking  courage,  for  he  had  not  repulsed  her,  and 
there  was  a  strange  eagerness  in  his  voice  that,  thrilled  her  and  drew  her 
closer.  "Yes,  do  not  he  angry  with  me,  Ivan,  and  send  me  away;  ' 
and  then  she  knelt  down  beside  him,  and  he  could  see  the  marks  of 
recent  tears  upon  her  face,  and  the  wistfulness  in  her  great  gray  eyes. 
and  if  he  did  not  take  her  to  his  heart  at  that  moment  it  was  because  lie 
wanted  her  to  speak  and  tell  him  how  this  miracle  had  been  effected, 
that  slit;  had  come  to  him  of  her  own  accord. 

"Oil,"  she  went  on,  but  he  could  hear  how  her  voice  trembled, 
"  when  ]\Ir.  Chudleigh  came  and  told  me  what  had  happened  I  felt  as 
though  I  could  not  stop  away  any  longer,  as  though  1  must  brave 
evervthing  to  let  you  know  how  sorry  I  am  for  her  and  you  too.  Poor 
Rachel!  to  think  of  what  she  is  suffering;  but  I  will  be  so  good,  so 
good,  if  you  will  only  let  me  stay  and  nurse  her." 

"  You  will  stity  here  with  her  and  me?  say  that  again,  Joan." 

"  Why,  how  could  she  go,  poor  soul!  when  she  will  never  walk 
again,  anil  will  have  to  be  tended  like  a  baby.  She  will  want  a  sister 
then  to  wait  upon  her.  Oh,  Ivan!  do  you  think  she  will  forget  all  that 
has  passed?" 

"  1  think — I  think — "  But  what  Mr.  Thorpe  thought  was  never 
rendered  in  words,  for  his  voice  died  away;  but  as  Joan  looked  at  him 
evervthing  was  made  plain  to  her  from  that  moment,  and  she  not  only 
knew  that  she  was  forgiven,  but  that  he  had  always  loved  her,  and  as 
she  felt  his  arms  round  her  she  lifted  up  her  face  to  his,  and  the  hus- 
band and  wife  kissed  each  other. 

There  were  broken  words,  sacred  confidences  never  to  be  forgotten 
by  either  speaker  during  the  agitated  minutes  that  followed  the  recon- 
ciliation. Of  the  two  the  man  was  the  most  moved;  his  nature  was 
stirred  to  its  very  depths.  Joan  wept  and  trembled  as  she  realized  for 
the  first  time  how  she  had  trilled  with  this  generous  heart,  how  she  had 
goaded  and  wounded  it  without  compunction  and  pity,  for  the  veil  was 
withdrawn  now  from  her  eyes,  and  she  knew  that  what  she  had  taken 
for  coldness  was  the  proud  reticence  of  a  great  love. 

"  If  I  had  only  known  that  you  really  cared  for  me!"  she  said  more 
than  once. 

"  Cared  for  you,  oh,  my  darling!  if  you  knewT  how  I  wanted  you,  and 
what  those  Sundays  were  to  me!  Often  and  often  I  would  have  taken 
you  in  my  arms  and  begged  you  to  come  back,  but  your  coldness  stopped 
me;  one  kind  word  would  have  opened  rny  lips." 

"Oh,  Ivan!  and  I  only  teased  you.  I  longed  to  be  friends  all  the 
time,  but  it  was  my  horrid  pride.  I  said  to  myself  that  I  had  been  re- 
pulsed once,  and  that  I  would  never  give  you  a  chance  of  repelling  me 
again." 

"  Repulsed,  Joan?" 

"  Yes,  that  night  at  the  Witchens,  when  you  would  not  look  at  me, 
though  I  pleaded  writh  you.  If  you  had  listened  to  me  I  should  have 
been  kneeling  beside  you  then  as  I  am  kneeling  now," 


236  ONLY   Tin:  i-:ss. 

"  Are  you  kneeling,  my  darling?  and  I  never  knew  it.  TTow  tired 
you  must  lie!  and  yet  your  dear  l':ice  looks  so  fresh  and  beautiful,  l.rl 
ivc  you  this  ehair."  But  Joan  resisted  this;  she  was  not  tired  a 
bit,  and  she  liked  her  position;  and  as  she  put  her  head  down  on  hi* 
shoulder  and  nestled  to  him,  Mr.  Thorpe,  was  satisfied  to  let  thin 
main  as  they  were.  Joan  was  accepting  her  happiness  with  a  child's 
simplicity;  everything  had  come  right,  and  she  and  Ivan  would  never 
misunderstand  each  other  again,  only  she  said  to  him  once,  half  play- 
fully and  half  seriously — 

"'You  are  saying  all  these  pretty  things  to  me,  and  I  am,  oh!  so  proud 
to  hear  them;  but  you  know  I  am  still  Joan,  and  shall  disappoint  you 
again  and  again." 

"  ( )h,  I  am  not  afraid  of  that,"  he  answered,  in  an  offhand  way.     "  I 
dare  say  you  will  behave  very  badly  sometimes,  and  give  me  plenty  of 
trouble,  but  I  shall  be  proof  against  annoyance  now  when  you  tea.- 
1  shall  remind  you  of  your  own  words."  ' 

"  What  words?"  she  whispered,  pressing  closer  to  him. 

"  That  you  love  me,  and  that  you  have  never  cared  for  any  other 
man;  you 'will  not  be  able  to  contradict  that—" 

"  And  of  course  it  is  a  wonderful  thing  that  I  should  care  for  my  own 
husband,"  she  returned,  with  a  charming  pout,  "  especially  after 'all  he 
has  done  for  me.  Ivan,  I  don't  mean  ever  to  be  afraid  of  you  again, 
but  how  could  I  help  it  when  you  kept  me  at  such  a  distance?  We  have 
both  been  very  foolish  people,  but  \ve  know  better  now." 

"  I  only  hope  I  shall  not  spoil  you,  Joan." 

"  Try  it,"  she  returned,  with  a  beaming  look  at  him;  "  you  will  see 
how  spoiling  agrees  with  me.  When  people  are  proud  of  nie  and  make 
much  of  me,  I  always  feel  as  blissful  as  a  cat  warming  herself  before  a 
tire  in  a  placid,  contented,  purring  state.  You  must  never  look  sternly 
at  me  again." 

"Not  when  you  wear  that  smile  for  me,  certainly.  Joan,  do  you 
know,  has  any  one  told  jrou  that  }'ou  have  grown  more  beautiful  than 
ever?" 

"  Oh,  to  hear  his  blarney!"  she  said,  blushing  nevertheless  with  pleas- 
ure. "  Did  you  ever  pay  me  compliments  before,  Ivan?"  But  if  he 
talked  nonsense  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  it  might  be  forgiven  him 
when  he  was  dizzy  with  this  unexpected  happiness. 

But  they  both  looked  a  little  foolish  when  the  maid  came  in  and  told 
them  that  dinner  was  waiting;  as  it  was,  the  meal  was  unconscionably 
late,  but  Jane  had  almost  forgotten  her  master. 

"I  hope  you  have  laid  for  Mrs.  Thorpe, "  he  observed,  nervously, 
conscious  that  Jane's  eyes  were  resting  on  Joan's  face;  with  undisgui>ed 
curiosity;  and  then  as  she  withdrew,  too  much  astonished  to  answer,  he 
helped  '.Joan  to  remove  her  bonnet  and  mantle,  and  then  took  her  into 
the  dining-room. 

It  was  rather  an  awkward  meal,  for  neither  of  them  liked  to  speak 
much  while  Jane  remained  in  the  room;  but  once  when  Ivan  looked  up 
and  saw  his  wife's  face  opposite  to  him  in  the  old  place,  as  she  sat  with 
downcast  eyes  playing  with  the  food  in  her  plate,  a  sort  of  mist  rose  to 
68,  and  there  was  a  choking  sensation  in  his  throat  as  he  thought 
of  the  old  desolate  days. 

-oon  as  they  were  left  alone,  Joan  glanced  at  the  clock  on  the  man- 
tel-pi- 

"  Ivan,  it  is  getting  late;  I  must  go  soon.." 

"  What  do  you  mean?"  he  sai  I,  almost  dropping  his  glass  and  staring 


OKLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  237 

fit  her.     "  If  you  think  that  I  shall  ever  let  you  out  of  my  sight  again 
you  are  mistaken,  Joan." 

"Oh,  but  I  must  go,"  she  returned,  laughing.     "  Just  listen,  Ivan, 
and  as  he  came  round  to  her  she  took  his  hand  iu  both  of  hers;  "  I  could 
not  treat  Mrs.  Mi  dhurst  so  badly.     You  know  I  only  left  word  that  I 
was  going  out  with  Mr.  Chudleigh,  and  what  would  she  think  if  I  never 
came  back  at  all?" 

"Nonsense!  I  will  send  her  a  message.  You  shall  not  leave  me, 
Joan." 

"  Oh!  now  we  have  the  old  masterful  Ivan;  but  indeed  you  must  give 
me  my  way  in  this.  I  do  not  like  to  be  shabby,  and  I  am  fond  of  Mrs. 
Medhurst.  She  was  far  too  nice  for  a  keeper." 

"Joan,  please  don't  be  provoking.'' 

"  Provoking,  is  it?  Oh,  the  tyranny  of  these  husbands!  But,  Ivan, 
you  must  hour  reason;  take  me  back  to  Truro  Square;  the  air  will  do  you 
good,  and  you  look  frightfully  pale.  Then  you  will  be  able  to  sleep, 
and  when  you  wake  in  the  morning  you  will  remember  that  you  came 
to  fetch  me." 

"  Oh,  I  am  to  fetch  you,  am  I?" 

"  Fes;  but  not  too  early,  please.  I  have  all  my  things  to  pack.  If 
you  are  good  you  may  come  to  luncheon,  and  this  young  woman  will 
be  ready  for  you." 

"  I  wonder  you  have  the  heart  to  leave  me."  Then  Joan  looked  very 
softly  at  him. 

"  It  is  only  for  a  few  hours,  and  I  do  not  want  to  be  selfish.  Ivan, 
will  you  promise  me  one  thing? — do  not  tell  Rachel  that  I  have  been 
here. 

"  I  should  not  have  told  her,"  he  returned,  rather  sadly;  "  there  must 
be  nothing  to  agitate  her  just  }*et." 

"  No;  and  I  will  tell  her  myself.  Oh,  I  mean  to  be  so  good  to  her, 
and  to  you  too.  I  think  I  am  too  happy  ever  to  be  naughty  again." 
And  then  as  Joan  took  her  husband's  arm  and  walked  with  him  in  the 
dim  starlight,  a  sense  of  peace  and  right-doing  seemed  to  steal  over  her, 
and  she  knew  the  contrary  currents  of  her  nature  would  be  checked  and 
controlled  by  the  calm  force  of  her  husband's  will — that  reasonable 
man's  will  which  is  removed  at  once  from  weakness  and  tyranny. 

"  No,  1  shall  never  misunderstand  Ivan  again,"  were  the  last  waking 
thoughts  that  night  before  she  sunk  into  a  happy  dream. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

RACHEL'S  NEMESIS. 

Thou  hast  done  well,  perhaps, 

To  show  how  closely  wound 
Dark  threads  of  sin  and  self 

With  our  best  deeds  are  found; 
How  great  and  noble  hearts, 

Stirring  for  lofty  aims, 
Have  still  some  earthly  and 

A  meaner  spirit  claims. 

ADELAIDE  ANNE  PROCTER. 

So  it  was  that  Ivan  Thorpe  won  his  wife's  heart  and  kept  it,  and  that 
in  his  trouble  Joan  proved  his  truest  comforter. 

When  Launcelot  called  the  next  day,  he  looktd  at  his  friend  some- 
what keenly. 

"  It  is  all  right,  then?    I  am  so  glad,  Thorpe." 


OtfLY    TTFE 


"  Yes,  I  am  going  to  fetch  her  now;  she  could  nol  stay  last  night  be- 
cause they  \vere  expecting  her  back.'' 

"  Don't  let  me  keep  you.  1  only  want,  to  know  how  .Miss  Thm-pe  is 
this  morning." 

"  We  hope  the  pain  is  lessening.  She  certainly  slept  a  little.  I  had 
a  long  talk  with  Maxwell  just  now,  and  he  seemed  rather  more  hopeful; 
but  we  are  to  keep  her  perfectly  quiet  for  the  next  week  or  two;  she 
must  not  even  know  that  Joan  is  in  the  house." 

"  You  will  have  to  be  very  careful,  then." 

"  Oh,  yes,  we  must  be  careful.  Happily,  the  house  is  old,  and  the 
walls  are  thicker  than  the  modern  houses,  and  the  stairs  are  carpeted." 

"  Still,  Miss  Thorpe  has  sharp  eyes,  and  that  very  cheerful  expression 
may  tell  tales."  Then  Mr.  Thorpe  laughed. 

':  Of  course  I  know  what  you  mean,  but  I  feel  grave  enough  when  I 
am  in  her  room.  Wh*  a  mystery  life  is,  Chudleigh!  One  is  struck 
down  and  another  uplijKd  at  the  same  moment.  Last  evening,  as  I  sat 
alone  in  my  study,  I  ujpught  things  were  at  their  worst,  and  then  I 
looked  up,  and  there  was  Joan's  face." 

"  I  am  glad  you  think  I  did  not  take  a  liberty  in  going  to  her." 

"  My  dear  fellow,  a  liberty?  What  do  I  not  owe  to  you?  —  everything, 
everything!'' 

"  Absolutely  nothing." 

"  Oh,  no;  I  am  not  weighed  down  with  a  sense  of  my  indebtedness  — 
not  at  all.  You  have  been  like  a  brother  to  me,  and  have  treated  Joan 
•with  the  chivalry  and  good  faith  of  a  gentleman.  Why,  it  is  to  you  I 
owe  my  life  and  my  wife's  return,  and  yet  I  am  not  to  speak  of  my 
gratitude!" 

"  No,  indeed;  there  must  be  no  such  word  between  us,  Thorpe." 

"  Oh,  but  there  must  be,  for  Joan  and  for  myself  too.  We  will  not 
incur  such  benefits  without  owning  ourselves  grateful.  If  I  am  happy 
enough  to  possess  such  a  friend,  I  may  surely  speak  out  my  inind  to 
him.'" 

"  If  it  will  do  you  good,  Thorpe,  but  I  would  rather  take  everything 
for  "ran  ted;  besides,  I  know  you  would  have  done  the  same  for  inc." 

"  I  don't  know  that.     I  am  not  Launcclot  Chudleigh." 

"  All  the  better  for  you,  old  fellow,"  remarked  Launce,  quaintly. 
And  then  he  took  up  his  hat  and  walked  with  his  friend  to  the  station. 
"  So  my  young  woman  is  ready  for  me,"  were  Mr.  Thorpe's  first  words 
as  Joan  came  into  the  room  with  a  demure  air,  but  looking  so  lovely. 

"  Oh,  yes,  and  you  are  ten  minutes  late.  I  have  been  watching  for 
you  for  the  last  hour,  and  was  just  beginning  to  get  anxious  for  fear 
liachel  was  not  so  well." 

"  \Ye  think  she  is  a  trifle  better,  dear,  but  Chudleigh  came  in,  anil 
that  detained  me.  Are  we  to  have  luncheon  here?  But  you  must  mine 
away  directly  afterward.  I  shall  not  be  satisfied  till  I  see  \ou  sitting 
opposite  to  me  in  the  study.  Why  are  you  laughing,  -loan?' 

•'  Because—  because  you  arc  BO  ridiculous,"  she  returned,  with  a  lov- 
ing Hi  Me  squee/e  of  his  hand  to  make  up  for  her  rude  speech,  for  .loan 
could  not  long  remain  on  her  best  behavior,  and  it  was  too  delicious  to 
van  showing  all  the  impatience  of  a  love-sick  boy.  "  Hut  I  will 
nol  tea'-e  you,  Ivan,  I  will  be  good;  you  shall  have  your  luncheon,  and 
1  will  wait  upon  you  like  a  dutiful  wife." 

"  Indeed,  no;   I  mean  to  wait  on  my  own  sweetheart." 

"  Oh!  to  think  of  him  conning  me  in  that  way!  Ivan,  I  am  sorry  I 
said  you  looked  old—  that  1  told  Mr.  Chudleigh  so  I  think  you  hiiv« 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  239 

grown  younger — that  I  never  knew  you  so  young  before. "  But  though 
Mr.  Thorpe  smiled  at  tin's,  he  saw  very  well  that  Joan  was  a  little  shy 
of  him  this  morning,  and  that  in  spile  of  her  bright  speeehes  the  tears 
lay  very  near  the  surface.  Even  as  she  jested  with  him,  speaking  of 
herself  as  his  young  woman  and  making  little  jokes  on  the  subject,  her 
changing  color  and  quick,  restless  movements  spoke  volumes  to  the 
eyes  that  had  learned  how  to  read  her  so  truly. 

But  as  they  stood  together  on  the  steps  of  the  house  in  Priory  Road, 
Joan  slipped  her  hand  into  her  husband's. 

"  Let  us  cross  it  together,  Ivan,"  she  whispered,  ami  now  he  could 
see  her  eyes  were  wet.  "  Do  you  remember  old  Biddy's  saying,  '  Hand 
in  hand  across  the  threshold  for  good  luck,  acushla?'  " 

Mr.  Thorpe  was  in  no  mood  to  laugh  at  Joan's  little  superstition;  he 
only  held  her  hand  very  tightly,  as  though  he  understood  her  mean- 
ing! 

But  when  they  had  entered  the  study  and  he  had  made  her  remove 
her  bonnet,  he  would  have  taken  her  in  his  arms  with  words  of  the 
sweetest  welcome,  but  she  put  her  hands  on  his  shoulder  and  bade  him 
wait  a  moment. 

"  Don't  kiss  me  yet,  Ivan;  I  want  to  say  something  to  you." 

"  My  darling,  it  was  all  said  yesterday,  and  to-day  it  is  my  turn,  and 
I  will  not  hear  one  word  that  relates  to  the  past;  this  is  our  new  life 
that  we  are  beginning  together." 

our  new  life,"  she  echoed,  "  but  I  want  you  to  remember  all 
I  said  to  you  yesterday.  I  will  try  to  be  good;  I  will  try  to  be  all  that 
n  wife  ought  to  be;  but  I  am  only  Joan,  I  can  not  alter  my  nature." 

"  I  do  not  wish  it  altered,"  he  returned,  looking  into  her  sad,  beauti- 
ful eyes.  "It  was  Joan  whom  I  loved  all  those  weary  years  ago, 
though  she  never  knew  what  was  in  my  heart  for  her.  It  was  Joan  for 
whom  I  pined  and  sickened  in  my  loneliness,  and  whom  I  loved  still 
even  when  I  was  most  angry  with  her,  and  it  is  the  same  Joan  whom  I 
am  holding  in  my  arms  now."  And  then  she  no  longer  refused  to  yield 
herself  to  his  caresses. 

And  so  the  new  life  began  for  them  both;  but  in  spite  of  their  happi- 
ness, a  happiness  that  increased  and  deepened  every  day,  there  was 
much  to  try  them. 

Upstairs  Joan  would  pass  her  sister-in-law's  room  with  noiseless  foot- 
step  and  bated  breath;  now  and  then  she  would  pause  on  the  threshold 
as  the  faint  tones  of  Rachel's  voice  met  her  ears,  then  the  tears  would, 
come  into  her  eyes  and  she  would  hurry  on. 

Ivan,  too,  had  need  of  vigilance  and 'circumspection  during  the  hours 
lie  spent  with  his  sister,  but  in  spite  of  all  his  efforts  he  could  not  entire- 
ly hide  that  some  change  had  passed  over  him;  a  certain  brightness  of 
eye  and  alertness  of  movement  betrayed  him. 

Rachel  would  lie  and  look  at  him  rather  wistfully;  once  she  said  to 
him,  with  a  touch  of  pathos  in  her  voice,  "  How  well  you  look,  Ivan! 
One  would  think  you  have  heard  some  good  news." 

"Well,  so  I  have,"  he  replied,  with  suspicious  readiness.  '"  Max- 
^rell  tells  me  he-  is  perfectly  satisfied  with  your  progress,  and  that  if 
you  go  on  as  you  are  doing  we  shall  see  a  decided  improvement  in  a  few 
days." 

"  The  pain  is  far  less  now,"  ?he  returned,  with  a  short  sigh;  "  I  sup- 
pose I  ought  to  be  thankful  for  that.  You  have  sent  off  the  letters, 
Ivan;  have  you  had  any  answer?" 

"  Yes;  Miss  Halliwell  will  undertake  the  work,     I  will  show  you 


240  ONLY  TTTT: 

li  tier  to-morrow.     Tt  is  r,  thoroughly  sensible,  business-like  > 

he  speaks  so  kindly  <>f  you.  1  think  she  will  be  the  right  person 
in  the.  right  place.  That  was'  a  happy  thought  of  yours."  '  But  lliere 
was  no  answering  brightness  on  J Michel's  pale  face,  only  a  slight  twitch- 
ing of  the  thin  lips  answered  him. 

-V  fortnight  had  passed  since  Rachel's  accident,  but  she  had  never  since 
spoken  to  her  brother  on  the  subject  of  her  helplessness.     She  had  ques- 
tioned Dr.  Maxwell  and  had  learned  from  him  all  that  it  was  nee. 
lor  i»r>r  to  know — that  they  hoped  that  in  a  little  while  she  would 
to  suffer.  i.u«  she  must  never  expect  to  lead  an  active  life  again. 

"  And  I  am  only  forty.fi ve— hardly  an  old  woman,  Doctor  Maxwell. 
Bat  there,  what  is  the  use  of  complaining?  we  must  take  what  Provi- 
dence orders." 

'  True;  and  things  might  be  much  worse,"  he  returned,  with  a  man's 
philosophy.  "You  must  make  up  your  mind  to  be  an  invalid;  but  I 
need  not  tell  you,  Miss  Thorpe,  that  even  an  invalid  has  pleasures. 
Mow,  my  sister  Brencla,  for  example,  is  one  of  the  happiest  \vonun  I 
know."  But  Miss  Thorpe  remained  silent.  Complaint  would  do  her 
no  good,  and  she  had  already  determined,  with  the  force  of  her  strong 
will,  that  whatever  she  suffered,  110  weak  rcpiuings  should  pass  her 
lips— that  she  would  not  add  to  Ivan's  trouble  by  letttiug  him  know 
what  she  suffered. 

So,  with  a  stern  heroism  that  belonged  to  her  nature,  she  set  herself 
to  face  the  future.  The  work  was  taken  from  her,  but  at  least  she 
could  sec  that  her  mantle  had  fallen  on  a  worthy  successor,  and  as  soon 
as  possible  she  had  sent  for  her  brother,  and  had  begged  him  to  write 
letters  from  her  dictation,  and  one  of  these  was  to  Miss  Halli  well. 

"  Yes,  it  is  a  great  relief  to  my  mind  to  know  that  she  lias  taken  it," 
she  went  on,  when  her  brother  had  ceased  speaking.  "  I  should  have 
been  grieved  if  the  society  had  suffered  just  as  it  is'in  such  good  work- 
ing order;  but  Miss  Halli  well  is  exactly  the  person  to  canyon  the  work. 
She  is  strong,  has  no  nerves;  and  then  her  time  is  her  own.  She  lives 
with  a  married  sister  who  has  no  children,  and  has  no  duties  to  fetter 
her." 

"  Yes,  and  she  will  be  a  godsend  to  you;  but,  all  the  same,  no  one 
can  even  properly  take  your  place,  Rachel.  I  have  never  said  a  word 
to  you  about  your  trouble — "  but  she  put  up  her  hand  to  stop  him. 

"  No,  and  I  have  thanked  you  for  it.     \Ve  do  not  need  word 
and  I.     If  I  said  anything  it  would  be  to  regret  that  I  am  to  be  an'  in- 
eumbrance  to  you  all  my  life;  but  I  will  not  hurt  you  by  saying 
that." 

"  That  is  the  truest  kindness  you  have  yet  shown  me."    Then  a  sot! 
r-ned  look  came  to  her  eyes. 

"  No,  I  will  not  wrong  your  generosity  by  saying  any  such  thing.     I 
know  what  we  are  to  each  other,  and  that  there' is  no  grudging  thought, 
in  your  mind."     Then  he  kissed  her  forehead,  almost  too  much  n 
to  speak,  and  as  he  did  so  he  noticed  how  gray  her  hair  was  growing. 

"I    suppose  you  see  Joan  sometime-.  .linued,  pi< 

though   following  out  some  train   of  thought.     Ivan  stalled,  and' had 
80me  difficulty  in  Controlling  the  muscles  of  his  face  as  he  answered;  for 
ot  .Joan  at  tliat  moment   tidying  his  papers  and  singing  under  her 
breath  at  her  work  for  fear  Rachel  should  hear  her? 

"Oh,   ;  her  sometimes,"  he  returned,  rather  awkwardly 

'  V*.u  know  I  told  you  S«." 

"  And  she  is  well?" 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  241 

"  Oh,  yes;  but  she  is  very  grieved  at  what  has  happened.  She  has 
sent  her  love  to  you  again  and  again,  only  I  have  never  delivered  her 
message.  Now,  there  is  nurse  coming  buck,  and  I  must  go."  And  he 
rose,  thankful  for  the  interruption;  for  what  if  she  should  question  him 
too  closely  about  Joan? 

But  Rachel  lay  for  a  long  time  without  speaking  after  he  had  left  her. 
Joan — why  was  Joan  alway*in  her  mind  now,  night  and  day?  Why 
could  she  never  get  rid  of  her  image  for  a  single  hour  in  spite  of  all  her 
efforts? 

Always  her  face  was  before  her,  now  in  one  mood  and  now  in  an- 
other; now  it  would  wear  a  mocking  expression,  or  the  next  moment  the 
gray  eyes  would  be  brilliant  and  angry  with  excitement.  "It  is  only 
one  of  her  Irish  raises;  it  is  best  to  leave  her  alone,",  she  would  have  said 
at  such  a  time.  But  even  as  the  recollection  crossed  her,  the  expression 
would  seem  to  change  to  one  of  sweetest  entreaty.  "  We  are  sisters: 
why  can  not  we  love  each  of  her  V"  it  seemed  to  say.  "  If  you  love  Ivan, 
why  are  you  so  hard  to  me?  You  are  cruel,  Rachel,"  and  so  on  in  her 
waking  and  dreaming  moments. 

Yes,  she  had  been  cruel  to  Joan;  and  this  was  her  punishment,  though 
no  such  confession  crossed  her  lips.  She  knew  that  this  was  her  pun- 
ishment, and  in  her  helplessness  and  desolation  she  told  herself  that  it 
was  the  hand  of  her  God  that  lay  so  heavy  upon  her. 

"  What  has  she  done  that  such  a  punishment  has  come  upon  her?" 
hud  been  Ivan's  words,  speaking  in  the  bitterness  of  his  heart.  But 
Rachel  could  have  told  him  that  her  sin  had  been  great.  Had  she  not 
made  an  idol  of  her  brother?  had  she  cared  for  aught  in  life  but  for 
him  and  for  her  work?  What  would  it  avail  to  her  that  she  had  fed  the 
hungry  and  clothed  the  naked,  when  her  cruelty,  her  coldness  and  hard- 
had  driven  her  sister-in-law  away  from  her  home— when  her  nar- 
row jealousy,  her  harsh  judgment,  had  first  alienated  Ivan  from  his 
wife,  and  had  led  to  their  separation? 

True,  Joan  had  sinned  grievously;  but  had  she  no  share  in  that  sin 
when  she  suffered  the  girl  to  wander  about  the  world  unguarded  except 
by  her  own  innocence?  What  terrible  responsibility  she  had  incurred 
by  keeping  this  secret  from  Ivan!  {She  had  sat  beside  him  evening  after 
evening  seeing  his  unhappiuess,  and  yet  had  held  on  her  pitiless  way! 
She  had  done  it  for  his  good;  but  who  had  made  her  the  arbiter  of  his 
fate? 

And  now — so  she  told  herself — her  Nemesis  had  overtaken  her.  In 
the  full  vigor  and  strength  of  her  middle  age  an  unerring  blow  had 
struck  her  down  and  taken  her  work  from  her,  she  was  no  longer 
worthy  to  do  it — God  would  not  accept  such  sacrifice.  The  life  that 
had  looked  so  pure  and  self-denying  to  others  was  full  of  hideous  un- 
clean ness  to  the  Divine  eyes  of  her  Judge! 

"  Blessed  are  the  merciful;"  but  had  she  ever  shown  mercy? 
"  Blessed  are  the  peace-makers;"  and  die  had  sown  bitterest  dissension. 
"  And,  to  dare  to  think  myself  a  good  woman!"  thought  Rachel,  wrath- 
ing  under  the  fierce  mysterious  pain  caused  by  those  strokes  of  the  two 
edged  sword  that  men  call  conscience — "  to^believe  that  the  world  would 
be  better  as  long  as  I  lived  in  it,  who  dared  to  do  Christ's  work  without 
the  Christ-like  spirit  that  should  go  with  it!" 

And  then  she  thought  of  the  ragged  little  ones  for  whom  she  had 
Worked,  and  tears  of  womanly  anguish  coursed  down  her  cheeks. 

'  No,  I  am  not  worthy;  I  own  my  sin,"  she  murmured,  clasping  her 
hands  in  the  darkness,  "  but,  good  Lord,  <h<>  sin  is  mine:  let  not 


OKI 

little  ones  suffer  through  my  fault.     Put   it  into  some  other  woman's 
head  to  take  up  the  dropped  work,  and  I  will  1.  iffer." 

And  perhaps  the  pure  un>eltMtness  of  this  prayer  brought  the  d< 
when  Miss  llalliwell  oil'ereil  h erst- If  for  the  work. 

After  all  Rachel  Thorpe  was  a  good  woman.     If  she-  had  ii \ 
she  had  great  virtues  too;  her  patience  and  silent  fortitude  under  sutler- 
ing,  her  unwillingDess  to  give  unnecessary  trouble,  drew  many  a  word 
of  praise  from  her  doctor  and  nurse. 

"  You  are  the  best  patient  1  ever  had,"  Dr.  Maxwell  said  to  her  once, 
make  no  I'hjei-lion  to  anything  1   presciibe;  and   I  know  many 
le  who  would  have  their  grumble  ut  the  doctor  if  I  ordered  them 
that." 

"There  seems  nothing  left  but  obedience,"  she  answered,  with  a 
smile.  "  Uesides.  I  should  only  think  it  ungrateful  to  grumble,  when 
you  lake  .such  trouble  about  me!" 

"  I  only  wish  I  could  do  more  for  you,"  lie  returned,  with  real  feel- 
ing, as  he  took  his  leave.     Dr.  Maxwell  was  beginning  to  feel  great  in- 
iu  his  patient;  he  told  his  sisters  that  Miss  Thorpe  was  a  line. 
creature. 

But  not  all  her  doctor's  skill  or  kindness  or  her  nurse's  attention  could 
lighten  the  tedium  of  those  dreary  November  days,  or  lift  that  bitter 
weight  from   Rachel's  heart;  and  as  she  looked  out  on  the  1( 
and  gray  skies,  she  told  herself  that  the  winter  of  her  life  had  come. 

Ivan  was  very  good  to  her,  very  gentle  and  attentive;  but  the  knowl- 
edge of  his  own  happiness,  and  Joan's  presence  in  the  house,  compelled 
him  to  make  his  visits  to  the  sick-room  somewhat  brief,  he  was  so 
afraid  of  betraying  himself. 

Once  they  both  heard  Joan  pass  the  door — she  had  forgotten  for  the 
moment,  and  had  run  up  in  her  old  fashion.  Ivan  even  fancied  she 
was  humming  a  tune. 

"  Whose  footstep  is  that?"  asked  Rachel,  suddenly.  "  Merton  never 
runs  upstairs  in  that  way. ' ' 

"  I  will  see,"  he  said,  going  to  the  door;  for  no  answer  seemed  ; 
ble  to  him  under  the  circumstances,  and  there  was  Joan,  peeping  at  him 
from  the  opposite  room.     She  looked  rather  aghast  as  he  n 
to  her  to  close  the  door. 

"I  see  no  one, "  she  heard  him  say,  after  this  little  maneiu 
taken  place.     "  I  think  Merton  and  nurse  are  down-stairs,  but  I  will 
give  them  a  hint  to  go  up  and  down  more  quietly."    But  Rachel  1" 
him  to  do  nothing  of  the  kind — the  house  was  silent  enough,  ai 
almost  longed  for  .--ome  sound  to  break  the  monotony;  but,  true  1o  her 
rule  not  to  complain,  she  did  not  mention  her  feelings  on  this  point. 

Joan  pleaded  vainly  with  her  husband  to  be  allowed  to  enter  the  tick- 
room,  but  he  always  evaded  her  request. 

"  You  must  wait  a  few  days  longer,"  he  would  say,  "until  Max- 
well is  quite  sure  there  will  be  no  risk;  but  I  dread  any  agitation  foi 
Rachel  in  her  presonl  weak  state."  An, I.Joan  reluctantly  submitted. 

I  Jut  she  had  no  idea  that  Ivan  was  thinking  more  of  her  than  of  the 
invalid;  that  his  passionate  fond  IK-MS  could  not  brook  the  th< 
••loud  on  that  bright  face.     "  She  is  like  a  child  in  her  happ: 
not  endure  the  idea  of  her  being  imprisoned  in  that  sick-room." 

o  himself.     "  Rachel  will  be  hard  and  cold  to  hei 
•  loan    will   droop.     Oh,    no;  I   must   keep   her   to   myself  a  little 
.      1  hope  I  am  not  seliish,  but  it  is  for  Joan's 

Joan  had  no  idea  that  Ivan  was.  keeping  them  apart  for  any 


OKLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  243 

son.  If  she  had  guessed  the  true  state  of  the  case  she  would  have  thrown 
her  arms  round  her  husband's  neck  and  thanked  him  for  his  tender  con- 
sideration for  her,  and  then  she  would  have  run  upstairs  and  made  her 
with  Rachel.  With  all  her  faults,  Joan  was  no  coward,  and 
would  not  have  shrunk  from  doing  her  duty  to  her  sister-in-law. 

After  nil,  it  was  Joan's  knight-errant  Launcelot  who  cut  the  Gordian 
knot  of  dilliculty  in  his  impulsive,  practical  way. 

One  afternoon,  when  Ivan  came  up  to  his  sister's  room,  she  asked  him 
if  Mr.  Chudleigh  were  still  in  the  house.  "  I  heard  him  speaking  to 
you  in  the  hall  when  nurse  left  my  door  open  just  now,"  she  said, 
quietly,  "  and  I  should  like  to  see  him,  if  you  think  he  would  not  mind 
the  trouble  of  coming  up." 

"  .My  dear  Rachel,  Chudleigh  never  thinks  anything  a  trouble.  He 
call*  constantly  at  the  door  to  ask  after  you,  and  Mrs.  Chudleigh  or  Miss 
Pauline  is  here  two  or  three  times  a  week."  But  here  Mr.  Thorpe  bit 
his  lip,  as  though  he  had  said  too  much.  It  was  quite  true  that  the 
ladies  from  the  Witchens  asked  after  his  sister,  but  it  was  nevertheless 
the  fact  thfit  their  visits  were  to  Joan. 

Mrs.  Chudleigh  had  cried  a  little  when  she  had  taken  Joan  in  her  arms 
during  her  first  visit.  The  girl  had  come  into  the  room  smiling  and 
holding  out  her  hands,  and  then,  at  the  sight  of  her  friend's  face,  she 
had  clung  to  her  without  speaking. 

"  My  dear,  I  need  not  ask  if  you  are  happy,"  she  said,  fondling  her. 
"  I  am  so  glad,  so  very  glad,  Joan." 

"  Yes,  and  you  are  my  first  visitor,"  returned  Joan,  drying  her  eyes 
and  looking  up  with  her  beaming  smile;  "  and  you  must  stop  and  have 
tea  with  me,  and  then  you  will  see  Ivan.  Oh,' I  don't  think  you  will 
know  him,  he  is  so  changed.  He  has  grown  quite  young  and  handsome, 
I  tell  him.  I  never  heard  him  laugh  before,  and  I  have  made  him  laugh 
twice  already. 

"  You  have  given  him  back  his  youth,  Joan." 

"  So  he  says.     Oh,  he  is  always  making  such  pretty  speeches  to  ine. 

Ivan  making  pretty  speeches!     lie  says  he  lias  to  make  up  for 

ime,  because  he  had  been  such  an  unsatisfactory  lover.     lie  had 

no  idea  that  girls  wanted  pretty  speeches  made  to  them.     He  thought  if 

a  man  wanted  to  marry  a  woman  that  that  was  a  compliment  to  last  her 

life;  but  he  has  found  out  his  mistake  now,"  with  a  merry  nod  of  her 

head. 

,"  Joan  is  a  fortunate  girl;  I  can  see  her  husband  adores  her,"  were 
Mrs.  Chudleigh's  words  to  Pauline  when  she  returned  home  that  day. 
"  It  was  not  what  he  said  to  her,  for  he  is  a  very  quiet  man,  but  the 
way  he  looked  at  her  when  she  was  speaking  or  if  she.  moved.  He  was 
al \vays  on  the  alert  to  open  the  door  or  wait  upon  her.  Oh,  women 
notice  these  little  things.  Depend  upon  it,  he  can  not  bear  her  out  of 
his  sight.  Joan  tells  me  that  though  he  pretends  to  grumble  if  she  dis- 
turbs him  at  his  work,  he  is  never  easy  unless  she  brings  her  work  and 
sits  with  him;  and  he  is  teaching  her  book-keeping  and  helping  her  with 
accounts,  so  that  she  may  be  able  to  manage  her  housekeeping. , 
She  has  much  to  learn,  but  he  is  so  patient  over  her  mistakes  that  she 
will  soon  make  a  clever  housekeeper." 

"You  are  right,  mother;  I  think  she  is  very  fortunate,"  returned 
Pauline,  with  a  sigh,  which  was  quickly  checked,  however,  as  she  took 
np  her  work — a  cushion  thot  she  was  embroidering  for  Brenda.  If 
Pauline  in  her  sturdy  honesty  thougl*  that  Joan  had  hardly  merited  all 
this  wealth  of  love,  she  was  none  the  less  thankful  that  her  friend's 


OXLY  TITT: 

troubles  were  over.      Shi1  did   not  erudge  Joan  her  happi 
though  slu>  dropped  that  sigh. 

11  Some  people  have  so  much,  and  others  so  little,"  she  .-aid.      "  There 
•A\"     Then   Mrs.  Chudleigh    looked   grave  at  the  mention  of 
her  daughter's  name;   for  all  the  world  knew  that  Oscar  Ilambh 
to  marry  his  cousin  the  following  week.      For  some  rca-on  matters  have 
been   hurried   on.  and    Bee  was  still  away,  aud  would  remain  with  the 
lers  until  the  New-year. 

"  Yc>.  poor  darling!"  she   returned,  echoing  Pauline'  or  of 

all  her  childn  -  just  then  the  one  nearest  her  heart.     She  re- 

garded her  as  the  stricken  deer  that  had  gone  apart  to  hide  its  wounds, 
and  she  only  spoke  of  her  in  a  tone  of  subdued  tendern. 

It  may  be  doubted  whether  the  Sylvesters  saw  any  of  this  stricken- 
deer  mood.  In  spite  of  her  trouble.  Bee  danced  and  hunted,  and  even 
took  a  part  in  the  private  theatricals;  and  if  she  eame  down  in  the 
morning  with  pale  cheeks  and  tired  eyes,  no  sensible  person  would  have 
accused  the  successful  young  beauty  of  shedding  tears  instead  of 
ing. 

"  Every  one  admires  )^our  daughter  Beatrix,"  wrote  Cousin  Emme- 
liue;  "  she  eclipses  all  our  country  girls.  Captain  Elliott  seems  serious- 
ly smitten,  and  follows  her  about  like  a  shadow;  though  I  am  o> 

that  the  girl  gives  him  little  encouragement.     He  is  only  the 
second  son,  but  he  will  inherit  his  mother's  fortune,  so  the  title 
not  matter.     And  he  is  nice-looking,  and  is  what  lialpli  calls  a  down- 
right good  fellow." 

"  Oh,  my  dear,  Bee  will  never  fancy  any  other  man,"  observed  Mrs. 
Chudleigh,  plaintively,  as  she  folded  up  the  letter.  "  If  she  had  only 
seen  Captain  Elliott  first!  Why,  they  are  the  Elliotts  of  Warburton 
Abbey — a  very  old  family.  But  no,  her  life  is  blighted!"  But  to  this 
Launcelot  made  a  very  strange  reply: 

"  I  don't  know  about  that,  Madella.  If  Captain  Elliott  is  a  wise  man, 
he  will  just  bide  his  time." 

CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

"  WOULD   YOU   LIKE   TO   SEE   HER?" 

Oh,  might  we  all  our  lineage  prove, 
<Ji\v  and  forgive,  do  good,  and  love, 
By  soft  endearments  in  kind  strife 
Light'nipg  the  load  of  daily  life! 

Christian  5 

RACHEL'S  gray  eyes  softened  in  their  old  way  at  the  sight  of  her 
favorite. 

Launcelot  w&a  one  of  those  men  who  seemed  to  understand  by  in- 

ttinct  how  to  behave  in  a  sick-room;  and  yet  he  was  perfectly  \\> 
to  illness.     He  had  been  abroad  at  the  time  of  Lily's  death,  and  his  fa- 
ther's sudden  seizure  had  allowed  no  protracted  nursing.     All  th- 
of  the  Chudleighs  had  been  remarkably  healthy;  nevertheless,  no  trained 
walked  into  the  nvm  with  a  firmer,  lighter  tread;  and  there  was 
iiing  in  the  quiet,  unhesitating  manner  in  which  he  sat 
down   and   took  the  invalid's  hand,  holding  it  for  a  minute  or  two  be- 

iie  relinquished  it. 

"  How  irood  of  you  to  send  for  me,  Miss  Thorpe!" 
"  How  .11  to  come!"  she  returned,  smiling.     "  I  thought  if 

1  hud  life  here/'  looking  round  the  Comfortable  room  a 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  245 

spoke,  "  that  it  would  be  hard  if  I  could  not  see  my  friends;  and  you 
arc  mv  vt't-y  special  and  particular  friend,  are  you  not?"  with  an  at- 
tempt at  playfulness;  but  her  lip  trembled  a  little  as  she  saw  how  much 
he  \\;'.s  affected  by  her  words. 

"  I  hope  so.  I  have  done  nothing  to  forfeit  my  privileges.  I  wonder 
if  Thorpe  has  told  you  how  often  I  have  been  to  inquire  after  you?  1 
may  truly  say  you  have  not  been  out  of  my  mind  for  a  single  hour." 

''  Oli,  we  know  who  has  the  kindest  heart  in  the  world;  that  is  what 
I  call  friendship."  And  then  she  drew  her  hand  away  and  lay  quiet 
for  a  few  minutes,  and  Launcclot  did  not  disturb  her.  '  But  as  she  sat 
beside  her  couch  in  the  vvintery  twilight,  as  the  fire-light  played  upon 
her  pale  face,  he  noticed,  as  Ivan  had,  how  gray  her  hair  was  growing. 
"  This  will  make  an  old  woman  of  her,"  he  thought,  regretfully;  and 
yet  at  the  same  time  it  struck  him  that  she  had  never  looked  nicer.  It 
was  a  line  face,  and  the  broad,  benevolent  forehead  and  the  kind  ex- 
•11  of  the  eyes  neutralized  the  thin,  severe  lips. 

"  I  hope  you  arc  thinking  how  comfortable  I  look,"  she  continued, 
rousing  herself  with  an  effort.  "  Is  not  this  invalid  couch  a  grand  in- 
vention? It  saves  nurse  so  much  trouble.  But  it  must  have  cost  Ivan 
a  great  deal." 

"  I  don't  suppose  Thorpe  minds  that." 

"  Xo,  indeed;  Ivan  spares  no  expense.  But  it  was  not  Ivan  who 
bought  that  lovely  com.  re-pied  t  all  covered  with  embossed  flowers,  and 
lit  for  a  princess;  and  it  is  not  Ivan  who  keeps  my  room  supplied  with 
hot-house  flowers — and  then  the  fruit  and  game." 

"  Chut!  As  though  such  a  trifle  matters,  my  dear  Miss  Thorpe!  It 
is  a  charity  to  cat  our  grapes;  we  have  more  than  we  want  at  the 
Witehcns." 

"  Oh,  of  course  you  do  not  wish  to  be  thanked,  but  all  the  same  I 

mean  to  thank  you.     And  now  will  you  give  your  step-mother  a  mes- 

I  know  it  is  she  or  Miss  Pauline  who  arranges  those  lovely 

baskets.     Will  you  tell  her  that  if  either  she  or  Miss  Pauline  will  call  to 

see  me  I  shall  be  too  glad  to  thank  them  in  person?" 

"Would  you  really  care  to  see  Madella?"  returned  Launcelot,  in  a 
pleased  voice;  for  he  had  not  expected  this. 

"  Yes,  I  shall  care  to  see  any  of  your  belongings,  Mr.  Chudleigh." 
And  she  continued  rather  plaintively,  for  somehow  it  seemed  easier  for 
her  to  talk  to  Lauucelot  than  to  Ivan  of  her  trouble.  "  But  I  am  not  un- 
selfish in  my  request.  If  you  only  knew  how  grateful  I  am  for  any- 
thing to  break  the  monotony  of  the  long  day!  I  suppose  it  is  because 
one  is  weak  that  one  can  not  control  one's  thoughts." 

"  Even  in  health  it  is  difficult  to  do  so,"  he  replied,  gravely. 

"  Yes,  but  mine  are  such  sad  thoughts.  I  am  always  thinking  of 
past  mistakes,  and  if  it  be  too  late  to  hope  to  rectify  them.  Mr.  Chud- 
leigh, I  wanted  to  tell  you  that  you  were  right  in  what  you  said  to  me 
about  Joan.  I  am  afraid  I  was  too  hard  on  her." 

"  Would  you  like  to  see  her  and  tell  her  so?"  he  returned,  in  the  most 
matter-of-fact  way,  and  not  at  all  as  though  her  remark  surprised  him. 

"  Yes — no — Ivan  would  not  like  it.  He  wished  me  to  have  nothing 
to  do  with  her;  he  told  me  so.  I  asked  him  if  I  should  go  and  see 
Joan,  and  he  said  certainly  not." 

"  He  has  taken  strange  means  to  keep  you  apart  then." 

"  How  do  you  mean?" 

"  Why,  Mrs.  Thorpe  is  here — living  here — and  has  been  here  for  the 
last  mouth;  but  they  were  all  too  much  afraid  to  let  you  know.  The 


21G  OSXY    Tin: 


moment  Mrs.  Thorpe  heard  of  your  accident  she  came  here  to  her  hus- 
biiul  ami  beu'uvd  to  be  allowed  to  nurse  ym;  but  he  would  not  li>tm  to 
that  for  a  luonu-nt.  because  Doctor  Maxwell  said  you  were  to  be  k 
quiet  and  nothing  was  to  woiry  you,  so  she  went  back.      lint  the  next 
clay  Thorpe  fetched  her,  and  she  has  been  here  ever  since." 

"Joan  here!''  and   Aii<s  Thorpe's  tone  was  u  little  excited.     "  Then 
that  was  the  reason  they  would  not  leave  my  door  open,  and  that  Ivan 
stayed  so  little  with  me  ut  first!     Ah,  that  accounts,  too,  for  all  that 
pu/./led  me.     I  thought  he  seemed  so  unaccountably  cheerful  —  m« 
though  he  were  trying  to  look  grave  than  if  he  really  felt  so." 

"  Poor  fellow!  1  suspect  it  was  hard  for  him  to  disguise  his  feeling. 
Miss  Thorpe,  it  is  just  as  I  told  you:  they  are  two  of  the  happie- 
pie  in  the  world  now  they  understand  each  other  —  only  they  wai; 
to  share  their  happii; 

"  I  shall  only  spoil  it,  as  I  spoiled  it  before,"  she  replied,  bluntly. 

"  No;  you  are  wiser  now,  and  will  do  nothing  of  the  kind.  Provi- 
dence has  taken  matters  out  of  your  hands.  Your  sister-in-law  is  re- 
established in  her  proper  place,  and  is  only  longing  for  a  complete  recon- 
ciliation. Let  me  tell  her  that  you  are  ready  to  sec  her." 

"  To-day—  now?  Oh,  I  am  not  strong  enough  for  a  scene  —  you  have 
no  idea  how  weak  I  am,  and  Joan  is  so  excitable."  And  the  old 
irritable  look  came  into  Rachel's  eyes. 

"  I  will  not  press  you  against  your  will,"  returned  Launcelot,  gently, 
"  tfiough  I  think  you  would  sleep  better  to-night,  and  enjoy  greater  rest 
of  mind,  if  you  made  the  effort.  But  I  am  afraid  I  am  tiring  you;  I 
have  already  talked  too  much."  But  Miss  Thorpe  would  not'let  him 
P>;  she  looked  anxious  and  undecided,  in  just  the  nervous  state  that 
would  certainly  induce  a  sleepless  night. 

"  You  are  disappointed  in  me,"  she  said  at  last,  very  abruptly;  "  you 
thought  I  was  a  better  Christian.  I  want  to  see  Joan,  but  I  can  not 
summon  up  courage  to  send  for  her:  my  weakness  is  making  me  a 
coward  for  the  first  time  in  my  life.  Of  course  you  can  not  understand 
such  miserable  indecision." 

Launcelot  seemed  to  ponder  over  these  words;  he  was  bringing  his 
common  sense  to  bear  on  the  difficulty.  Miss  Thorpe  was  nervous,  but 
delay  would  only  increase  her  nervousness;  she  seemed  to  dread  a  proba- 
ble scene,  but  what  if  there  should  be  no  scene?  Thorpe  was  out  of  the 
way  —  he  had  gone  up  to  town.  Should  he  take  it  on  himself? 

"  I  am  afraid  I  must  disappoint  you;  I  can't  bring  myself  to  send  for 
her,"  she  said,  in  quite  a  despairing  voice. 

"  All  right,  don't  flurry  yourself;  I  will  bring  her,"  returned  Lannee- 
l.'it,  cheerfully;  and  he  actually  walked  out  of  the  room,  leaving 
Thorpe  too  much  astonished  at  this  brisk  treatment  to  utter  u  word, 
She  had  not  even  the  presence  of  mind  to  call  him  back,  or  to  forbid 
this  independent  action  on  his  part;  she  could  only  lie  there  grim  and 
p;,le,  with  nervous  coldness  creeping  round  the  region  of  her  1 

How  long  it  was  since  he  had  gone!    Ten  minutes,  surely!    Of  course 
Joan  was  standing  on  her  dignity  and  would  not  come.     Well,  sh- 
the  mistress  of  the  house,  and  there  would  be  no  one  to  interfere  with 
her  rights  just  nowr.     A  poor,  paralyzed  creature  with  shattered  nerves 
Was  not  likely  to  be  a  formidable  rival. 

"  1  will  own  my  fault  against  her.     I  will  pi  arc  myself  in  the  wrong, 
and   perhaps   that  will   satisfy  her;  and  I  will  try  and   hold   my  t- 
when  she  i  <me  (•!  her  Irish  speeches;  but  more  than 

that  I  dare  not  promise."     Rachel  was  working  herself  up  to  just  that 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  247 

restless  point  when  sheer  nervousness  would  induce  her  to  say  thft 
wrong  thing;  in  hen  heart  she  was  longing  for  Joan's  forgiveness,  if  her 
pride  could  ever  stoop  to  entreat  for  it;  but  it  was  just  this  confession 
that  was  so  difficult  to  her  reserved,  undemonstrative  nature. 

Poor  Rachel  lay  quaking  in  no  very  enviable  state  of  mind  and  body 
when  Launcelot's  quick  tap  at  the  door  announced  his  return;  but  he 
only  stood  by  it  a  moment  to  let  Joan  pass  him,  and  then  closed  it  gen- 
tly on  them  and  went  down-stairs. 

Rachel  put  out  her  hand  and  tried  to  speak  as  Joan  came  up  to  her 
couch.  No  doubt  Launcelot  had  been  carefully  tutoring  Joan  for  the 
part  she  was  to  play,  for  her  step  was  quiet  and  her  manner  composed, 
until  the  sight  of  that  helpless  figure  under  the  eider-down  quilt  stirred 
her  out  of  her  composure.  That  Rachel,  the  strong,  untiring,  energetic 
woman,  should  be  lying  there  helpless  as  a  child!  Oh,  the  pity  of  it! 
Joan  forgot  the  part  assigned  her  there;  instead  of  the  calm,  matter-of- 
fact  greeting  that  was  to  pass  between  them,  she  threw  her  arms  round 
Rachel,  and  burst  into  impulsive  tears. 

"  Oh,  my  poor  dear,"  she  said,  "  this  is  too  dreadful!  To  see  you 
lying  here  and  not  able  to  move,  and  they  would  not  let  me  come  to 


were  running  down  her  cheeks  in  Joan's  impulsive  way. 

"Oh,  Joan,"  began  Rachel,  faintly;  but  Joan  would  not  let  her 
speak. 

"  Oh,  the  times  I  have  begged  Ivan  just  to  let  me  creep  into  the  room 
and  sit  by  you  a  little  when  you  were  asleep!  for  I  thought  if  you  woke 
up  and  found  me  here,  you  would  have  said  to  yourself,  '  So  Joan  has 
come  back  and  wants  to  make  herself  useful,  poor  child;  and  I  will  be 
good  to  her  and  let  her  stop;  and  there  shall  not  be  a  word  said  about 
her  bad  behavior,  because  we  are  sisters  and  Ivan  has  forgiven  her.' ' 

"  Joan— Joan — will  you  let  me  speak?" 

"  No,  darling,  not  until  you  have  kissed  me,  and  that  will  lell  me 
without  any  words  that  you  too  have  forgiven  me;  for  Mr.  Chudleigh 
says  that  you  are  too  weak  to  talk,  and  that  there  must  be  no  scene  at 
all;  and  he  is  the  best  man  in  the  world  next  to  Ivan,  and  so  he  must 
be  obeyed.  Ah,  now  I  have  made  you  cry,  and  Ivan  and  Mr.  Chud- 
leigli  will  be  angry  with  me!  Oh,  my  clear,  my  dear!  please  don't  do 
it!"  And  Joan  put  her  own  handkerchief  to  Rachel's  eyes,  and  coaxed 
and  made  much  of  her,  until  the  sweetness  of  those  caresses  seemed  to 
melt  the  hard,  frozen  weight  round  Rachel's  heart.  Joan  had  taken 
her  by  storm;  there  was  no  place  for  pride,  no  opportunity  even  for 
confession. 

Rachel  in  her  weakness  and  confusion  could  only  bring  out  a  broken 
Word  or  two  at  intervals,  which  Joan  promptly  quenched.  "  Sorry!  of 
course  you  are  sorry,  and  so  am  I,  that  I  was  such  a  bad,  ill-tempered 
girl  that  you  could  not  love  me  a  bit;  but  we  won't  talk  about  that  now; 
It  is  dead  and  gone,  as  the  children  say.  Oh,  I  am  to  forgive  you,  am 
I?  I  thought  it  was  I  who  was  to  be  forgiven.  But  you  shall  have 
your  own  way.  Now  let  me  get  you  your  tea — nurse  has  gone  out  for 
a  walk.  Will  it  tire  you  too  much  to  tell  me  how  you  like  things,  or 
»hall  Merton  come  up?" 

"  No,  no;  please  stop  with  me,  Joan." 

"  Oh,  I  must  kiss  you  again  for  that,  it  is  so  dear  of  you  to  want  m& 


24:8  ONLY  Tin-:  i:ss. 

Xow  U'll  ino,  dar];.r,£,  will  you  have  the  curtains  closed  and  the  lamf 
lighted,  or  do  \  it  ?" 

"  Whichever  you  like,  Joan." 

"  Very  well;  'if  I  am  to  choose  I  should  like  the  lamp,  because  1  can 
.  and  you  do  look  so  nice!     I  wonder  whether  il  is 
ay  hair  n  .  or  that  lovely  quilt  and  that  dainty  little 

liawll  I  never  saw  you  in  anything  but  back  before.  Now,  do 
you  like  the  round  table,  clo-e  to  your  couch?  anil  may  1  have  i. 
heie  too?  or  will  it  disturb  you':"  And  as  Kachel  shook  her  head,  .loan 
lri;>pcd  about  the  room  and  made  her  little  preparations,  quite  uncon- 
scious of  tho  tide  of  penitence  and  love  thai  was  rising  in  Rachel's 
breast. 

Rachel  knew  as  she  watched  her  that  she  had  hungered  secretly  1'or  a 
sight  of  Joan's  bonnie  face.  The  girl's  fresh  beauty  and  simple  uncon- 
scious ways  tilled  her  with  surprise  and  admiration.  How  gracefully 
and  quietly  she  moved  about  the  room!  how  lightly  and  ea-ily  she 
touched  things!  Her  questions  did  not  fatigue  Kachel,  though  their 
childishness  made -her  smile.  She  was  so  anxious  to  please  in  trill; 
sure  that  Rachel  must  know  her  own  mind  and  regulate  her  sick-room, 
sh"  would  scarcely  take  her  own  tea,  of  which  she  made  a  pretense,  for 
watching  every  mouthful  that  Rachel  took.  "Is  that  all  you  take?" 
fhe  said,  sorrowfully,  when  the  little  meal  was  ended — "  just  a  crumb 
of  sponge  cake  that  would  feed  a  canary!" 

It.  was  not  until  Joan  had  cleared  away  the  tea- things  and  brushed  up 
ihe  hearth  that  she  consented  to  sit  quietly  down  and  talk  a  little,  and 
then  it  was  that  Rachel  made  her  little  speech,  though  it  was  not  quite 
liie  speech  she  intended. 

"  Joan,  1  believe  we  have  both  been  to  blame  for  the  past  trouble.  If 
you  had  guarded  your  temper  better  and  I  had  provoked  you  less  and 
made  things  easier  for  you,  you  would  never  have  leit  Ivan.  And,  my 
for  my  own  peace  of  mind  you  must  let  me  say  this,  that  my 
greatest  sin  against  you  was  keeping  Ivan  in  ignorance  that  you  had  left 
your  situation.  A  less  generous  woman  than  yourself  would  find  it 
hard  to  forgive  that;  and  though  you  and  he  may  pass  it  over  in  your 
mutual  content  and  happiness,  it  Is  that  sin  I  can  not  forgive  myself." 

"  Then  you  are  very  naughty  and  uncharitable  to  your  poor  self, 
Rachel,  and  we  shall  have  to  be  dreadfully  fond  of  you  to  make  up  lor 
your  own  hardness."  But  Rachel  only  smiled  at  this  very  Iri  h 
sophistry,  and  went  on — 

"  If  repentance  means  trying  to  do  better,  I  hope  to  prove  to  both  you 
and  Ivan  that  1  am  truly  repentant,  though  I  am  not  a  woman  to'pul 
my  deeds  into  words.  To  be  sure,  there  is  nothing  I  can  do  for  cithei 

•'i  now;  I  can  give  nothing  and  receive  everything — whi' 
very  unfair  arrangement  under  the  cireumstai 

"Not  at  all,"  maintained  Joan,  stoutly.  "The  real  kindness  and 
charity  will  be  letting  me  wait  on  you  after  what  has  parsed,  givi: 

i  splits  to  one  who  has  justly  forfeited  them.     It  is  }'ou  who  will  be 
,ic,  Rachel,  when  you  permit  me  to  take  my  plan-  here. 
Thi<  room  is  your  castle,  and  no  'one  can  invade  it  without  your  leave 
and  li 

"  Then  I  will  make  you  free  of  it.     Come  when  you  like  and  as  often 
i    like,  .loan,  and   1  will    try  to   bi  ;<T  to  you— and  you 

lightly."     And  .Joan,  who  had  ever  honored 
Kache]  in  her  heart  in  fcpite  of  all  her  girlioh  anger,  knew  that  thi- 


OtfLY    'I  l-RNESS.  i4M 

the  truth,  and  that  when  Rachel  couhl  speak  such  words  their  recon- 
ciliation was  indeed  complete. 

When  'Mr.  Thorpe  came  back  that  evening  he  marveled  greatly  that 
Joan  was  not  on  the  watch  to  greet  him  as  usual.  The  drawing-room 
and  study  were  both  deserted. 

;ie  must  be  upstairs  dressing  for  dinner,"  he  thought,  and  he  won- 
dered what  gown  she  would  wear,  and  if  the  dark  red  chrysanthemums 
he  had  brought  with  him  would  be  available  to  complete  her  toilet:  for 
it  had  become  a  habit  with  him  to  bring  her  in  ilowers  ever  since  he  had 
sc<  a  her  delight  over  a  few  orchids  he  had  brought  her  once  from  a 
friend's  conservatory. 

lie  hud  something  else  for  her  to-night— a  beautiful  gypsy  ring  with 
three  diamond-;  sunk  in  the  thick  gold  band,  that  was  to  replace  I  lie  old 
gold  keeper — for  he  knew  well  that  this  was  the  anniversary  of  her 
wedding-day,  though  he  had  taken  no  notice  of  the  fact;  and  he  won- 
dered it'  Joan  had  recollected  it,  she  was  always  so  careless  of  dates.  In 
reality  Joan  was  awa^of  it,  but  a  sort  of  mixture  of  pride  and  humility 
and  wholesome  shame  prevented  her  from  mentioning  it  to  Ivan.  She 
thought  that  Ivan,  like  herself,  recoiled  from  the  memory  of  that  cold, 
bleak  wedding,  when  she  had  stood  before  the  jillar  ashy,  reluctant 
bride,  who  knew  nothing  of  the  nature  of  the  man  she  was  marrying, 
except  that  he  had  spoken  kindly  to  her  and  had  promised  her  a  com- 
fortable home. 

Ivan  was  in  a  far  more  lover-like  mood  now  as  he  stood  chafing  in 
his  empty  study,  with  the  brilliant  ring  hidden  in  waistcoat  pocket  and 
the  dusky  red  ilowers  in  his  hand,  thinking  of  Joan's  girlish  fancy  for 
diamonds  because  they  Hashed  so  brightly,  while  opposite  to  him  hung 
Launcclot's  pict  ure  in  its  handsome  frame — "  Mysonne's  fair  wife  Eliza- 
beth." "  Poor  Chudleigh!"  he  thought,  as  his  eyes  fell  on  it.  r>ut  he 
never  confessed  even  to  himself  the  reason  of  his  pity;  a  sortof  delicacy 
prevented  him  even  from  dwelling  on  the  thought. 

Once,  in  sheer  wifely  honesty,  Joan  tried  to  tell  him  of  that  little 
scene,  with  hot  blushes  of  shame  on  her  face;  but  he  had  stopped  her  at 
once. 

"  I  am  the  last  man  to  whom  you  should  tell  it,  Joan.  Forget  it— 
every  word— find  only  pray  that  your  husband  may  be  worthy  of  the 
friendship  of  such  a  man."  And  then  he  muttered  to  himself  in  a  tone 
of  grief  that  filled  Joan's  heart  with  dismay  and  girlish  compunction, 
"  And  he  must  be  the  scapegoat;  he  must  expiate  our  sins— Joan's  and 
Rachel's  and  mine:  and  that  pure,  large  nature  must  suffer;  hut  at 
least  his  suffering  shall  be  respected  by  me. "  And  Joan  had  hardly 
ventured  to  open  her  lips  for  a  long  time  after  that. 

As  Joan  had  failed  him,  Mr.  Thorpe  restrained  his  impatience  and 
went  into  his  sister's  room  to  cheer  her  up  with  half  an  hour's  conversa- 
tion; but  he  was  hardly  prepared  for  the  sight  that  met  his  eyes.  For 
Rachel,  worn  out  with  the  emotions  of  the  last  few  hours,  had  fallen 
asleep  with  her  hand  in  Joan's;  Joan  was  sitting  as  stili  as  a  mouse, 
almost  afraid  to  draw  her  breath  comfortably  for  fear  of  disturbing  that 
light  slumber.  She  looked  up  and  held  up  a  warning  finger  as  her  hus- 
band advanced  cautiously  toward  her.  Joan's  ruddy  brown  hair  was 
shining  in  the  lamp-light;  her  eyes  had  a  thoughtful  look  in  them. 

"  Oh,  you  have  waked  her,"  she  said,  regretfully,  as  Rachel  opened 
her  eyes  and  looked  at  them.  "  I  heard  your  step,  Ivan,  but  I  could 
not  come  to  meet  you  as  usual;  Rachel  and  I  have  been  having  such  a 
liice  talkl" 


250  OHLY    THE    OOYERSTESS. 

"Joan  has  been  very  good  to  pie,"  returned  Rachel,  In  a  suhduod 
voice,  and  the  look  that  passed  between  the  brother  and  sister  wa- 
eloquent  than  any  words.     "  Yes.  you  may  take  her  away  no\v,  1'or  I 
don't  mean  to  be  selfish,  and  she  lias  been  Bitting  here  all  the  afternoon 
but  you  may  both  eome  to  me  after  dinner  if  you  will." 

"Oh,  Ivan,  we  are  going  to  be  sisters,"  exclaimed  Joan,  when  she 
found  herself  alone  with  her  husband.  "  Poor  Rachel — I  mean  to  love 
her  so  dearly  for  your  sake,  and  for  her  own  too.  Fancy  her  b. 
my  pardon,  and  making  out  that  she  was  the  one  in  the  wrong!  I  tried 
to  stop  her,  but  I  soon  saw  it  was  useless,  so  I  let  her  talk,  and  then  she 
fell  asleep. ' ' 

Mr.  Thorpe's  answer  was  a  very  tangible  one.  When  Joan  saw  the 
diamonds  sparkling  on  her  finger,  and  knew  that  Ivan  had  remembered 
that  it  was  her  wedding-day,  her  delight  was  unbounded. 

"  I  wonder  if  it  is  wrong  to  be  so  happy!"  she  whispered.  '  Some- 
times I  am  afraid  that  it  is  too  good  to  last — you  spoil  me  so  dreadfully, 
Ivan,  and  it  is  not  as  though  I  deserved  it;"  and  4ken  with  one,  of  those 
swift  changes  of  mood  that  had  been  her  fascination  in  Luuncelot's 
eyes,  her  lovely  face  clouded,  and  she  clung  to  her  husband  almost 
convulsivel}7". 

"  Don't  be  so  good  to  me,  Ivan.  I  ought  not  to  forget  all  my  past 
sins  against  you,  and  I  know  you  will  never  remind  me  of  them." 

"  Never,  love;  you  are  right  there.     Do  you  think  I  mean  to  fling 
stones  at  my  poor  little  sweetheart  because  she  would  not  learn  the  les- 
son I  was  too  stupid  to  teach  her?    We  are  both  learning  it  together 
now.     '  And  with  what  measure  ye  mete  ' — oh,  these  are  grand  \\ 
Joan." 

Joan's  reply  was  not  in  words;  she  only  touched  her  husband's  hand 
reverently  with  her  lips.     Oh,  how  good  he  and  Mr.  Chudleigh  were! 
Could  she  ever  have  expected  that  such  forgiveness  could  be  accorded 
her — that  after  all  her  willful  wanderings  and  failures  she  should  ! 
into  the  paths  of  pleasantness  and  peace! 

Joan  was  learning  new  lessons  of  womanliness  and  self-guidance  in  a 
good  school;  love  and  confidence  were  bidding  fair  to  eradicate  the 
faults  and  ripen  the  virtues  in  Joan's  nature.  Joan,  who  had  lived  like 
a  heathen  in  her  aunt's  time,  and  had  hardly  opened  her  Hible,  and  had 
only  gabbled  her  prayers  by  rote  after  parrot  fashion,  was  learning  now 
that  religion  meant  something  more  than  going  to  church  and  listening 
to  sermons. 

In  her  husband's  eyes,  and  in  Launcelot  Chudleigh 's  too,  it  meant  to 
"  do  justly  and  walk  humbly  "  with  their  God,  to  love  truth  for  truth's 
own  sake,  and  to  live  the  highest  life  possible;  it  meant  lovin.tr  otli 
well  as  themselves;  and  in  Launcelpt's  case  it  meant  even  more,  for  it 
included  a  passionate  love  of  service,  a  disposition  to  give  more  than 
"must,"  asking  for  little  in  return,  and  a  courage  that  would  not 
scruple  even  at  plucking  out  the  right  eye  if  duty  demanded  it,  as  .loan 
knew  well. 

After  all  it  was  Rachel,  not  Ivan,  who  taught  Joan  to  read  her  liible, 
and  who  took  herself  most  to  task  for  the  girl's  heathenish  ignorance. 
"  She  knows  absolutely  nothing  about  religion,"  she  said  once,  almost 
in  despair  to  Ivan.  "  An  intelligent  child  in  the  Sunday-school  would 
put  her  to  shame;  she  owns  she  has  never  even  thought  about 
things." 

"It  must  be  your  mission  to  teach  her,  Rachel,"  he  returned,  with  a 
•mile;  for  this  information  did  nut  stem  to  shock  him.  Rachel  Wii#  a 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  251 

rigid  disciplinarian,  and  lie  would  not  wound  her  sensitive  scruples  by 
hinting  that  possibly  Joan  might  be  fulfilling  her  religious  duties  more 
fully  by  controlling  her  temper  than  by  reading  a  series  of  doctrinal 
3.  Joan  might  be  a  later  gleaner  in  the  field  of  truth,  but  at  least 
she  would  be  diligent  and  painstaking  to  the  extent  of  her  power,  and 
her  simplicity  might  gather  in  a  richer  harvest  than  many  a  wiser  and 
better  woman. 

"  If  I  were  only  as  good  as  Ivan!" — to  the  end  of  her  life  Joan  would 
say  this,  for  with  added  light  and  larger  responsibility  came  a  more 
poignant  sense  ot  imperfection.  It  was  a  good  feature  in  her  character 
that  Joan  never  glossed  over  her  ill-doing  in  the  past,  never  made  light 
of  it  or  extenuated  her  conduct.  "Oh,  I  was  not  a  Christian  then," 
she  would  .say,  with  one  of  her  frank,  sweet  looks.  "  If  1  had  known 
all  I  know  now  1  would  never  have  done  it.  I  wish  for  my  children's 
sake  that  their  mother  had  been  a  good  woman;  but  Ivan  never  wishes 
them  to  know,  and  he  is  good  enough  for  both,"  finished  Joan,  with  a 
smile  and  a  si<ih. 


CHAPTER  XXXVHI. 

LAUNCELOT'S  PICTURE. 

It  was  the  Sea  of  Sorrow;  and  I  stood 
At  midnight  on  the  shore.    The  heavy  skies 
HuiiK  dark  above;  the  voice  of  them  that  wept 
Was  heard  upon  th<>  waters,  and  the  chill 
Sad  tfoin^  <>f  a  midnight  wind,  which  stirred 
No  wave  thereon. 

Ezekiel  and  other  Poems. 

WHEN  Lauucclot  looked  back  years  afterward  to  this  period  of  his 
life,  he  would  call  it,  smilingly,  "  the  winter  of  his  discontent,"  when 
he  was  least  satistied  with  himself  and  his  surroundings. 

"  I  was  a  grumbling  sort  of  fellow  then,"  he  wrould  say.  "I  had 
been  a  devout  believer  in  human  happiness,  an  optimist  in  every  sense 
of  the  word;  but  just  then  things  went  wrong  with  me,  and  I  felt  as 
though  the  poor  old  world  luid  turned  topsy-turvy.  I  am  afraid  I  was 
a  stilish  fool  in  those  days." 

Lauucclot  was  inclined  to  crypeccavi,  because  unexpected  trouble  had 
befallen  him,  but  all  the  same  he  carried  his  burden  steadily,  and  with 
a  good  deal  of  courage. 

After  all,  most  people  have  to  undergo  this  sort  of  experience  and  re- 
vulsion. There  are  sterile  bits  of  bleak  wilderness  in  most  lives.  Some- 
times  one  has  to  cross  them  in  youth,  sometimes  in  middle  age. 

Even  in  old  age  one  shivers  a  little  at  the  recollection  of  these  barren 
tracts.  How  vast  and  unending  they  looked  to  our  unaccustomed 
eyes;  how  somber  the  light;  how  desolate  the  surroundings;  what  a 
sense  of  isolation,  of  unapproachable  loneliness  in  those  great  solitudes 
when  we  are  set  face  to  face  with  ourselves,  and  no  other! 

There  are  some  who  carry  piteous  records  of  their  dreary  pilgrimage 
to  their  dying  day — some  whom  even  present  prosperity  will  never  cheat 
into  utter  oblivion  of  a  bitter  past — but  with  most  the  dark  days  are  for- 
gotten in  the  warmth  of  household  fires;  they  have  only  a  scar  or  two 
to  remind  them  of  the  wounds  that  had  once  cost  them  such  cruel  throbs 
of  agony.  Time  is  the  great  healer,  they  say,  and  in  a  sense  that  is 
true. 

Lauucelot  was  quite  ready  for  any  consolation  that  might  offer  itself. 


253  OXLY   Tin:   r;ov 

lie  had  no  desire  to  become  an  eccentric  misanthrope  because  his  love 
hud  ended  disastrously.  But  he  conld  not  deny  to  himself  thut  life-  had 
become  a  very  humdrum,  ordinary  all'uir;  that  his  enthusiasms  had  died 
a  natural  death;  that  all  pleasures  seemed  Hut,  stale,  and  unprofitable, 
anil  that  he  .seemed  to  tak"  interest  in  nothing  but  his  work. 

Launcelot  would  tell  himself  that  "  not  enjoyment  and  not  sorrow  is 
our  destined  end  or  way,"  for  lie  loved  at  all  times  to  philosophize; 
but  this  reflection  brought  more  satisfaction  to  his  head  than  his  heart, 
thui  aehed  with  its  novel  feeling  of  loneliness.  "  Never  mind,  it  is 
d  that  does  it,"  lie  would  say,  applying  the  words  of  one  of 
Trofiope's  characters  to  his  own  case.  "  I  will  stick  to  my  work  and  do 
the  best  I  ean  for  other  people,  and  leave  my  happiness  to  take  care  of 
itself." 

Launcelot  kept  his  word  stoutly.  He  worked  with  a  will  during  the 
remainder  of  the  winter,  and  finished  his  picture,  which  was  exhibited 
in  May;  but,  to  the  chagrin  of  more  than  one  would-be  purchaser,  it 
was  not  for  sale;  no  price  could  have  tempted  Launcelot  to  part 
with  it. 

One  afternoon  he  took  his  sister  Beatrix  to  see  it.  She  had  stopped 
with  the  Sylvesters  until  the  middle  of  January,  and  had  then  paid  a 
round  of  visits  in  Devonshire,  moving  from  one  house  to  another,  for 
the  Chudlcighs  had  a.  large  circle  of  Devonshire  friends.  It  was  the  end 
of  May  now,  and  she  had  only  been  at  the  Witchens  a  week. 

Launcelot  thought  she  was  very  much  improved.  She  was  a  little 
quieter  and  less  decided  in  manner,  but  she  seemed  tolerably  cheerful. 
Perhaps  she  might  be  a  trifle  thin,  but  she  looked  wonderfully  pretty, 
and  as  Launcelot  walked  with  her  through  the  rooms  of  Burli; 
House,  he  was  aware  that  his  companion  attracted  a  good  deal  of  atten- 
tion. 

"  What  a  crowd  there  is  round  that  small  picture  in  the  corner!"  ob- 
served Beatrix,  presently.  "  Lend  me  the  catalogue  a  moment,  Launce, 
I  must  look  out  the  number;  '408,  The  Sea  of  Sorrow;  by  Launcelot 
Chudleigh.'  Why,  it  is  your  picture!  what  a  strange  name!  and  theie 
:ie  poetry  under  it."  And  Bee's  face  grew  serious  as  she  read  the 
lines  to  herself: 

"  It  was  the  Sea  of  Sorrow;  neither  sun 
Nor  moon  did  lighten  it;  the  waters  slept. 
And  dreamed  not  as  they  slept,  for  smile  nor  frown 
Did  cross  their  face.    Around  the  mountains  swept 
Like  a  preut  host  at  rest;  and  I  beheld 
The  sh;.ulo\v  of  Eternity  lie  deep 
And  heavy  on  the  sea." 

Bee  made  no  further  comment  on  the  lines,  but  her  face  grew  < 

»nd  wistful  as  she  waited  until  there  was  space  tor  her  lo  edge  in. 
When  at  last  she  took  her  place  before  the  picture  she  gave  a  little 
quick  sigh  of  appreciation,  though  she  did  not  speak,  but  as  Launcdoi 
d  at  her  he  was  more  than  satisfied  with  the  result  of  his  work. 
At  lease  there  was  one  who  would  understand  his  meaning. 

And  yet  it  seemed  to  pu/./le  many  of  the  spectators.  "Oh,  what  a 
dreadfully  sad  picture!  is  it  an  allegory,  papaY"  Bee  heard  one  young 
girl  B 

•  •ry  truth  it  was  a  somber  picture.    A  little  boat  with  tin- 
in  it  v  i  on  a  wild  and  desolate  sea.     Scarped  dill's  and  n. 

bounded  the  Inhospitable  shore.     A  murky  sort  of  twilight  seemed 
-ver  the  sullen  waves.     Only  across  the  track  of  the  water 
j:g  light, 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  253 

The  figures  were  very  striking.  An  old  man  in  fisherman's  garb  was 
seated  in  the  stern;  a  broken  our  was  in  his  hand,  the  other  had  drifted. 
IIop<'iessh<.'vs  was  written  in  his  aspect,  his  head  was  sunk,  his  gray 
beard  drooped  on  his  breast,  his  knotted,  work- worn  hands  still  grasped 
the  useless  oar.  Of  what  avail  were  his  thews  and  sinews  now,  when 
the  merciless  tide  threatened  to  dash  their  nulo  bark  against  the  pitiless 
rocks?  By  his  side  was  a  woman  in  a  mourning  cloak.  The  hood  had 
fallen  back,  and  showed  a  face,  young,  but  haggard  and  wild  with 
misery.  Despair  was  stamped  upon  her  features,  her  strained  eyes  had 
a  fixed  look  of  horror  in  them;  the  palms  of  the  hands  were  pressed, 
not  in  supplication,  but  in  misery.  At  the  prow  stood  a  youth  in  a 
minstrel  dress:  his  head  was  bare  and  his  hair  disheveled.  His  face  was 
pale  like  his  companions,  but  there  was  a  steadfastness  and  fortitude  in 
his  altitude,  as  he  gazed  with  unblanehing  eyes  across  the  water. 

•nied  to  turn  in  the  same  direction,  and  then  she  per- 

!  that  the  faint  light  streaming' over  the  water  came  from  a  lamp 

held  by  a  shadowy  hand  half  hidden  by  clouds.     There  was  a  wound 

in  the  palm  as  though  a  nail  had  pierced  it,  and  Bec-in  her  awe  and 

girlish  reverence  knew  what  that,  kingly  hand  signified. 

"  ( >h,  Laur.ce,  how  beautiful!"  she  began.  But  she  did  not  finish  her 
sentence,  for  at  the  sound  of  her  voice  a  gentleman  who  was  standing 
before  her  looked  round  hurriedly,  and,  raising  his  hat,  moved  away, 
lice  turned  a  little  pale  as  she  bowed  in  response. 

"  Oh,  wait  a  moment,  Oscar.  I  have  not  half  looked  at  it,"  observed 
the  lady  who  was  with  him,  and  Bee  saw  a  very  pale,  insignificant-look- 
ing girl  trying  to  detain  him.  Bee,  who  was  wedged  in  by  the  crowd 
behind  her,  bore  her  awkward  position  almost  heroically.  She  kept  her 
<>n  the  picture  all  the  time  Oscar  Ilamblyn  was  trying  to  make  a 
way  for  himself  and  his  wife.  And  though  her  expression  was  a  little 
fixed,  and  there  was  a  faint  quivering  of  the  nostrils.  Bee  held  her  head 
as  proudly  as  ever.  "  There  is  no  hurry,"  observed  Erica,  rather  fret- 
fully, as  she  joined  her  husband.  "  I  wish  you  cared  more  for  pictures, 
but 'they  seem  to  bore  you." 

Bee  did  not  hear  any  more,  but  that  one  glance  had  shown  the  somber, 
disatisficd  look  on  Oscar's  face,  that  had  once  seemed  to  her  the  perfec- 
tion of  manly  beauty. 

"  ,She  is  very  plain,"  she  said  to  herself,  with  a  sort  of  shudder,  and 
(hen  the  press  behind  her  relaxed,  and  Launcelot  took  her  and  drew  her 
aside. 

"  I  am  so  sorry,  Bee,"  he  whispered;  "  but  the  world  is  such  a  small 
place  after  all.  Shall  we  sit  down  and  rest  a  little?"  But  Bee's  pride 
would  not  allow  such  confession  of  weakness,  though  her  limbs  were 
trembling  under  her,  and  a  sort  of  giddiness  prevented  her  from  seeing 
the  pictures.  "  Oh,  I  am  not  so  very  tired,"  she  observed;  "  we  had 
better  do  this  room  thoroughly."  And  Bee  found  the  place  in  her  cata- 
logue, and  pretended  to  ignore  the  fact  that  her  successful  rival  was 
standing  a  few  yards  from  her. 

Launcelot  smiled  grimly  to  himself  as  he  saw  Oscar's  confusion  and 
discomfiture.  His  wife,  who  had  a  will  of  her  own,  had  absolutely  re- 
fused to  accompany  him  to  the  other  room,  and  was  giving  methodical 
attention  to  each  picture  in  turn.  Oscar  might  grumble  and  pull  his 
mustache  savagely  as  his  pale  little  helpmeet  put  up  her  eyeglasses  and 
peered  into  every  picture,  but  he  knew  of  old  that  Erica  could  be 
obstinate.  He  revenged  himself,  however,  by  taking  stolen  glances  at 


254  OKLY    THE    GOVEKKESS. 

Bee's  half-averted  face,  which  looked  lovelier  than  ever  in  its  girlish 
pride. 

"  He  shall  not  see  that  I  care  so  very  much,"  Bee  was  savin;;  to  her- 
self, for  she  had  learned  something  in  these,  nine  months,  "  but  on, 
couiiug  weak  and  womanly  in  a  minute,  "  1  wish  that  she  looked 
for  his  sake.     I  am  afraid  he  is  not  happy."     Bee  tormented  h 
with  this  reflection  long  after  her  rir.st  sickening  heart-throb  at  tin 
of  her  faithless  lover  had  quieted  down;  but  if  she  had  really  graspc 
the  truth  of  things,  it  was  Erica  to  whom  pity  was  due,  though,  as  IK 
sister-in-law  would  say  contemptuously,  "  Erica  married  Oscar  with  h< 
eyes  open." 

Young  Mrs.  Hamblyn  was  making  the  best  of  a  bad  bargain.     Sh; 
giving  everything  and  receiving  a  very  scanty  return;  her  wifely  dev<, 
lion  was  taken  as  a  matter  of  course;  her  liberality  could  not  satisfy  th 
grasping  natures  of  the  Hamblyn  family.      Even  before  their  h( 
moon  was  over  Erica  had  discovered  that  she  must  keep  the  mastery  'i 
her  own  hands,  for  fear  her  husband's  prodigality  and  weak  will  shouh 
swamp  them. 

Bee  need  not  have  wasted  her  pity.  Oscar  had  already  far  more  than 
his  deserts.  His  plain-faced  little  wife  adored  him,  though  she  kepi- 
him  in  order  and  drew  her  purse-strings  tightly  for  his  good.  lie  dared 
not  neglect  her,  as  he  would  have  neglected  any  other  woman  when  his 
first  fancy  was  over,  and,  in  spite  of  her  insignificance,  he  would  Ixi 
obliged  to  respect  her. 

Poor  Bee  was  to  undergo  another  unwelcome  encounter.  They  were 
just  entering  another  room,  when  a  fair,  highly-bred  looking  m:in 
stopped  just  in  front  of  them  and  offered  Bee  his  hand. 

"  I  scarcely  ventured  to  hope  we  should  meet  again,  MissChudleigh,1 
he  said,  with  such  unconcealed  pleasure  in  his  voice  that  Bee  1)1  us  i 
she  introduced  him  to  her  brother  as  Captain  Elliott. 

"  I  am  going  down  to  Southampton  to-night,"  he  said,  looking  at  her 
wistfully.  "  You  know  our  regiment  is  embarking?" 

"  I  hope  Lady  Elliott  and  your  sisters  are  quite  well,  "  relumed  Bee, 
politely.  "  Yes,  I  heard  from  Maggie  Sylvester  that  you  were  going.'1 

Just  then  one  of  Launcelot's  numerous  acquaintances  acenstetl  him. 
and  he  dropped  back  a  few  paces;  when  he  rejoined  them  Captain 
Elliott  was  taking  his  leave. 

"Good-bye,"  Bee  said,  as  she  gave  him  her  hand  very  gently.     "  1 
hope  you  will  have  a  good  passage.'1     And  then  Captain  Elliott  i 
his  hat  and  turned  away. 

"  Well,  my  dear,"  began  Launcelot,  but  she  stopped  him  hurriedly. 

"  Oh,  Launce,  I  am  so  tired!  do,  please,  take  me  home."  And  then  he 
saw  that  she  looked  very  white  and  shaken.  But  as  they  walked  down 
Piccadilly  he  said,  quietly — 

"  1  am  glad  I  .saw  Captain  Elliott,  Bee;  lie  is  just  what  I  expected  to 
find  him:  a  line,  manly  looking  fellow,  of  whom  any  woman  might  be 
proud."  And  then,  as  Bee  did  not  answer,  he  went  on:  "  You  know 
Madella  tells  me  everything,  and  so,  of  course,  I  am  aware  you  have 
given  him  his  conge;  he  looks  rather  down,  poor  fellow!" 

"Don't  talk  about  it, "  she  returned,  in  a  subdued  voice;  "if  you 
knew  how  unhappy  it  made  me!     But  none  of  his  people  blame  inc. 
They  know  I  gave  him  no  encouragement,  Lady  Elliott  told  me  e< 
§clf . ' ' 

"  Does  he  know  the  reason  of  your  refusal,  Bee?" 

*'  That  I  cared  for  some  one  else.     Oh,  yes.     Of  coin  •  rved 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  £55 

!o  know  the  truth.  I  am  afraid,"  and  here  she  blushed  again,  '•'  that  lie 
has  not  quite  given  up  hope.  Pie  says  when  he  conies  biu-k  to  England 
he  will  try  again." 

"  Then  I,  for  one,  vote  Captain  Elliott  a  brick,"  returned  Launcelot, 
enthusiastically.  "  Now,  Bee,  you  silly  child,  don't  look  at  me  re- 
proachfully, as  though  I  don't  understand.  Take  my  advice;  put  him 
and  every  other  man  out  of  your  he:id  for  a  little  while,  and  by  and  by, 
when  things  look  a  little  brighter,  you  will  soon  rind  out  gold  from 
dross,  and  who  is  the  right  man  after  all."  And  I  hen  he  broke  off  and 
said,  a  little  wistfully,  "  I  think  you  read  my  parable  truly,  Bee." 

"  Do  you  mean  the  pictuie?  Oh,  Lumu'e,  1  am  so  glad  you  will  not 
sell  it.  You  must  hang  it  in  your  studio,  and  then  I  can  look  at  it  some- 
times; it  will  be  better  than  a  sermon." 

"  I  will  show  you  the  poem  when  1  get  home,"  was  all  his  answer, 
and  Bee  looked  at  him  with  a  mute  re-  Launce  was  in  some 

way  altered,  she  thought,  and  yet  no  trouble  ever  seemed  to  touch  him. 
Where  had  he  learned  all  his  wisdom?  No  one  ever  seemed  to  under- 
stand and  sympathize  like  Launce. 

Bee  would  have  to  do  without  him  soon,  for  Launcelot  was  to  start 
the  next  day  for  his  long-deferred  tiip.  A  friend  of  his  was  going  on  a 
sketching  excursion  through  Switzerland  and  the  Austrian  Tyrol,  and 
Launcelot  was  to  bear  him  company  through  the  summer  and  early 
autumn. 

Launcelot  had  finished  his  picture,  and  a  vague  restlessness  made 
him  anxious  to  be  gone.  The  Witchens  had  grown  like  a  prison  to 
him,  and  he  longed  for  a  freer  life  and  mountain  air,  and,  like  a  wise 
woman,  Mrs.  Chudleigh  made  no  attempt  to  keep  him;  even  when 
Launcelot  spoke  in  a  desultory  way  of  Munich,  and  even  Prague,  in  Oc- 
tober she  did  not  wince. 

"  There  is  no  reason  why  you  should  not  have  a  long  holiday,"  she 
said,  in  quite  a  matter-of-fact  way.  "  You  know  wre  shall  be  at  Pen- 
zance  most  of  the  summer,  and  we  shall  do  very  well  for  a  little  while, 
even  if  you  do  go  on.  Geoffrey  is  older,  and  so  much  more  thoughtful, 
and  Bernard  never  gives  us  trouble  now." 

"  Yes,  and  I  could  come  back  if  you  wanted  me,"  returned  Launce- 
lot. And  so  it  was  settled  between  them  that  he  was  to  be  perfectly 
free  until  Christmas.  Perhaps  Mrs.  Clmdleigh's  intuition  told  her  how 
heavy  the  strain  of  these  months  had  been,  and  as  she  looked  at  his 
care-worn  face,  that  was  never  without  a  bright  smile  for  her,  whatever 
his  mood  might  be,  she  knew  how  greatly  he  needed  change. 

So  Launcelot  went  and  feasted  his  eyes  on  the  loveliness  of  snow- 
capped mountains  and  smiling  valleys,  and  set  himself  to  learn  the  les- 
son that  Dame  Nature  in  her  bountiful  moods  would  teach  all  her  weary 
children— that,  in  spite  of  failures,  life  is  full  of  grand  and  unutterable 
meanings,  and  that  they  who  are  not  afraid  to  wait  and  possess  their 
soul  in  patience  will  solve  its  enigmas  by  and  by. 

Launcelot  did  not  strive  after  any  impossibilities.  He  never  cheated 
himself  with  the  idea  that  his  youthful  brightness  would  return,  but  he 
helped  himself  largely  to  the  good  things  that  still  fell  to  his  share,  and 
in  time  owned  himself  moderately  contented.  His  love  of  human  fel« 
lowship  drew  him  into  congenial  company,  and  his  unfailing  sympathy 
and  kindly  nature  always  surrounded  him  with  friends. 

At  this  time  of  his  life  he  mixed  more  exclusively  with  his  own  sex. 
He  still  loved  the  society  of  cultured  and  intelligent  women,  and  was  as 
great  a  favorite  as  ever  with  them;  but  he  had  grown  a  little  shy  and 


OKLY    THE  i:33. 

reserved  with  thorn,  ns  though  resolved  to  carry  out  one  of  his  friend's 
lies—"  that  I'hudleigh  had  resolved  to  eschew  matrimony." 

•-.No.  I  <hall  ocver  many,  "he  would  say,  cheerfully;  and  in  his  heart 
he  felt  tluit  he  was  speaking  the  truth.     "  I  mean  to  make  a  model 
,elor  uncle,  and  spoil  all  my  nephews  and  nieces." 

It  was  toward  the  close  of  the  summer,  when  Launcelot  was  wander- 
ing about  the  Austrian  Tyrol,  that  he  received  an  English  paper  and 
some  letters  with  the  Riversleigh  postmark,  and  read  the  announcement: 
"  On  the  4th  hist.,  the  wife  of  Ivan  Thorpe,  of  a  son."  A  letter  from 
Mr.  Thorpe  and  his  sister  accompanied  the  paper.  Launcelot  read  his 
friend's  first.  It  was  brief  and  concise,  like  the  writer,  but  every  word 
breathed  intense  pride  and  satisfaction.  "It  is  our  great  wish— Joan's 
and  mine— that  you  should  stand  sponsor  for  our  boy,"  he  wrote. 
"  We  have  already  made  up  our  minds  that  he  is  to  be  called  Launcelot. 
If  j'ou  wish  to  complete  our  happiness  you  will  agree  to  this.  At  pres- 
ent I  can  tell  you  little  about  him,  except  that  he  is  a  big,  healthy  fel- 
low, with  splendid  lungs,  and  that  he  has  his  mother's  eyes.  His  aunt 
Rachel  pronounces  him  a  grand  specimen  of  babyhood." 

But  the  next  sentence  was  of  a  different  character: 

"  As  your  people  are  still  at  Penzance,  I  suppose  you  have  not  heard 
of  Maxwell's  illness.  He  has  had  typhoid  fever,  and  for  some  time 
things  looked  very  serious,  but  he  is  on  the  mend  now.  I  saw  him  yes 
terdiiy,  and  he  looked  a  ghost  of  himself.  Poor  Miss  Charlotte  is  almost 
worn  to  a  shadow  with  nursing  and  worry.  Mrs.  Maxwell  was  ill  at 
the  same  time,  though  not  from  the  same  cause.  Rachel  misses  her  doc- 
tor sadly;  his  visits  were  always  welcome  to  her.  Joan  liked  him  ex- 
ceedingly, and  he  had  grown  very  intimate  with  us  all." 

Rachel's  letter  was  a  little  more  descriptive: 

"  You  may  imagine  how  delighted  we  all  are,  and  how  proud  I  am 
of  my  new  title.  Ivan  says  little,  but  one  can  see  how  happy  he  is. 
The  other  day  he  came  into  my  room  with  his  son  in  his  arms  (fancy 
Ivan  acting  nurse!),  and  laid  him  down  beside  me.  You  should  have 
seen  the  expression  on  his  face— his  intense  pride,  and  the  pains  he  took 
to  hide  it.  He  can  not  refrain  from  starting  up  every  time  he  hears 
baby  cry;  but  he  will  get  used  to  it  in  time.  As  for  Joan,  she  is  love- 
lier than  ever.  I  think  just  this  was  wanting  to  bring  out  her  womanli- 
ness— she  is  so  much  gentler.  Baby  is  more  like  his  mother  than  his 
father.  He  has  Joan's  gray  eyes  and  dark  lashes,  but  his  mouth  will 
be  like  Ivan's.  I  only  hope  we  shall  not  spoil  him  among  us. 

"  Has  Ivan  told  you  that  we  are  going  to  move  at  Michaelmas?  There 
is  no  room  for  a  baby  and  an  invalid  in  this  house.  Ivan  has  made  up 
his  mind  to  take  one  of  those  red-brick  houses  on  Overton  Rise;  so  we 
shall  be  near  neighbors.  Spring  Mead  is  a  very  pleasant  house,  and  has 
u  large  garden  attached  to  it.  They  are  going  to  give  up  a  room  on  the 
ground  iioor  for  my  use.  It  is  the  best  room  in  the  house,  but  no  other 
will  suit  their  purpose,  as  it  opens  on  the  veranda,  and  Ivan  says  I  can 
be  wheeled  out  on  the  lawn  every  fine  day. 

"  Joan  and  he  have  planned  it  all  without  consulting  me.  Part  of  it 
is  to  be  curtained  off  as  my  sleeping-room,  and  the  remainder  fitted  up 
as  a  sitting-room,  and  Morton  is  to  be  my  nur 

"  I  have  left  oil  as  many  invalid  habits  as  possible,  and  .im  as  busy 

helplessness  will  allow.     I  am   able  to  do  a  good  deal  for  our 

.y  in  the  way  of  correspondence,  and,  to  my  delight,  1  liml  I  can 

Assist  Ivan  materially  in  his  additional  work.     Indeed,  the  day  is  not 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  25? 

half  long  enough  for  all  I  have  to  do,  and  Joan  pretends  to  grumble 
when  she  brings  her  work  in  and  I  am  too  busy  to  talk  to  her. 

"  Joan  is  as  great  a  chatterbox  as  ever,  but  she  keeps  us  all  lively; 
indeed,  I  can  not  tell  you  how  I  missed  her  during  those  three  weeks. 
I  felt  my  helplessness  then,  when  I  could  not  even  give  her  a  kiss  of 
congratulation.  But  now  she  and  baby  spend  hours  in  my  room. 

"But  I  am  chattering  on  and  wearying  your  patience.  You  must 
tell  us  all  about  yourself  in  return. 

"  I  remain,  my  dear  Mr.  Chudleigh, 

"  Your  affectionate  friend, 

"RACHEL  THORPE." 

"  Yes,  she  needed  just  that— the  developing  and  softening  touch  of 
motherhood — to  ripen  her,"  thought  Launcelot,  as  he  put  aside  the  let- 
ters. And  then  after  a  little  thought  he  wrote  to  his  friend,  congratu- 
lating him  and  sending  kindly  messages  to  Joan.  He  would  accept  the 
sponsorship,  he  said,  but  they  must  not  expect  him  to  be  present  at  the 
christening.  He  was  going  on  to  Munich  and  Prague,  and  there  was 
little  chance  of  his  returning  to  the  "Witchens  before  Christmas. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

"HE    IS    HEDLEY    TO    MI." 

My  fond  affection  thou  hast  seen, 

Then  judge  of  my  regret 
To  think  more  happy  thou  hadst  been 

If  we  had  never  met ! 
And  has  that  thought  been  shared  by  thee? 

Ah,  no !  that  smiling  cheek 
Proves  more  unchanging  love  for  me 

Than  labored  words  could  speak. 

BAYLY. 

TOWARD  the  beginning  of  December  Launcelot  was  setting  his  face 
homeward,  and  had  reached  Dresden,  where  he  intended  to  spend  a 
week  or  two  renewing  his  acquaintance  with  the  picture-galleries;  but 
he  changed  his  intention  on  receiving  a  letter  from  his  step-mother. 
Nothing  had  happened;  his  brothers  and  sisters  were  well,  but  there 
was  a  vague  word  or  two  that  gave  him  the  impression  that  she  was 
disturbed  and  anxious,  and  was  longing  for  his  return,  though  her  un- 
selfishness forbade  her  to  recall  him. 

"  We  have  never  been  so  long  apart,  and  I  am  counting  the  days  until 
Christmas,"  she  wrote,  "  when  we  are  to  see  your  dear  face  again. 
Geoffrey  is  as  good  as  possible  and  tries  to  take  your  place  in  every- 
thing, but  you  have  always  been  my  right  hand,  Launce,  and  somehow 
1  feel  lost  without  you.  I  would  give  much  to  see  you  sitting  opposite 
me  this  evening;  but  there,  I  am  a  selfish  old  mother,  and  you  must 
not  take  any  notice  of  my  grumblings." 

"After  all,  there  are  other  things  in  life  beside  picture-galleries," 
thought  Launcelot,  "  and  I  have  been  away  nearly  seven  months.  It  is 
I  who  am  the  selfish  one."  And  in  his  impulsive  way  he  packed  up 
his  Gladstone,  settled  his  hotel  bill,  took  the  first  train  that  offered,  an.; 
three  days  afterward  arrived  at  the  Witchens. 

The  Welcome  he  received  must  have  shown  Launcelot  how  greatly  he 
had  been  missed.  Beaming  faces  surrounded  the  dearly  icved  son  and 
brother;  the  rery  children— Sybil  and  Dossie  -seemed  to  hang  on  his 
a 


258  ONLY   Tin:   COVKKXESS. 

!,  Launcclot  divided  his  attentions  equally  as  well  as  he 
could,  lie  hail  gifts  lor  every  one:  some  lovely  Dresden  china  for  his 
step-mother,  pretty  ornaments  for  his  sisters,  books  for  (JeolTrey  anil 
Bernard,  and  a  store  of  good  things  for  the  younger  oues  such  as  chil- 
dren love. 

"  But  Dos.-ie  is  nut  a  little  girl  now,"  he  observed,  as  he  looked  at  his 
favorite.  Dossie  was  twelve  years  old  now,  and  was-growing  tall  and 
slim;  her  fair  hair  hung  in  a  long,  smooth  plait  below  her  waist;  her 
little  oval  face  was  as  pal.;  as  ever,  but  the  deep  blue  eyes  had  their  old 
affectionate  look.  I)o>sie  did  not  speak  her  gladness  in  words;  she  had 
grown  shy  with  her  old  friend,  but  she  watched  his  every  look  and  \\as 
ready  to  anticipate  his  wishes  as  she  sat  in  her  corner  mute  as  a  bright- 
eyed*  mouse. 

"  Lauucelot,  in  his  quiet  way,  was  trying  to  read  every  face  in  turn, 
and  his  shrewdness  was  not  long  at  fault.  "It  is  about  Pauline  that 
she  is  anxious"  he  said  to  himself  when  he  retired  to  his  room  later; 
"  the  girl  looks  well,  she  lias  grown  prettier,  but  all  the  same  I  see  a 
change  in  her.  I  have  an  uncomfortable  suspicion  that  it  is  about  Max- 
well— no  one  mentioned  his  name  to-night — but  I  hope  not— I  hopo 
not." 

It  was  not  until  late  the  following  afternoon  that  he  found  himself 
alone  with  his  step-mother;  the  young  master  had  had  plenty  of  busi- 
ness to  occupy  him,  and  it  was  only  when  the  dusk  made  idleness  com- 
pulsory that  he  pushed  aside  his  letters  and  settled  himself  for  a  chat. 

"  This  is  just  what  I  like,"  he  said,  lazily,  as  he  threw  himself  into 
an  easy-chair  beside  Mrs.  Clmdleigh's  tea-table;  they  were  together  in 
the  morning-room,  the  girls  were  out  with  Geoffrey,  and  Sybil  and  Dos- 
sie  were  in  the  school-room  with  mademoiselle,  a  good-huinorcd,  talk- 
ative little  Parisienne,  who  had  replaced  Joan. 

Fenton  had  just  placed  a  large  log  on  the  fire,  and  already  it  splut- 
tered and  blazed  with  ruddy  light.  Outside,  the  December  moon  was 
rising  behind  the  cedar;  Mrs.  Chudleigh  was  leaning  back  in  her  chair 
contemplating  her  boy's  bronzed  face  with  deep  satisfaction;  he  looked 
better,  healthier,  she  thought;  he  was  less  thin,  and  the  care-worn  ex- 
pression had  entirely  gone.  Perhaps  he  was  a  little  older  and  graver, 
but  what  of  that? 

"  Well,  Madella?"  he  began  again,  this  time  inquiringly,  and  as  she 
seemed  a  little  surprised  at  his  tone  he  continued,  "  Of  course  I  could 
»ee  from  your  letter  that  something  was  troubling  you,  and  so  1  eame 
home  at  once;  no  one  has  said  a  word  to  me,  but  all  the  same  I  know  it 
is  about  Pauline." 

"  Oh,  Launee,  how  could  you  guess?    I  am  sure  dear  Pauline  w 
cheerful  as  possible  last  night." 

"  Yes,  but  her  cheerfulness  was  rather  forced,  and  I  noticed  that  she 
was  a  little  shy  with  me.    If  you  are  going  to  tell  me  that  she  and  Max- 
well have  fallen  in  love  with  each  otlier,  I  can  only  say  1  am  extremely 
sorry;  there  is  no  man  I  like  and  respect  more,  but  it  is  utterly  im; 
ble  for  him  to  marry." 

"Yes,  they  both  know  that,  and  dear  Pauline  •>(]   about  it. 

But,  Laurie*,  I  do  feel  as  though  we  have  been  most  to  blame.      Why 
did  we  let  her  visit  so  much  at  IJridgr   House'/     She  and  Charlotte  have 

trable  all  the  summer,  and  then  there  was  that  poor  J)i< 
Knd  s"  ing  him.     How  can  anyone  wonder  if  they 

.re  for  each  oth 

'hen'     Well,  I  eao  ou)y  say  that  I  expected 


ONLY    THE    OOVEUKESS.  259 

th.ngs  of  a  man  like  Doctor  Maxwell.  I  thought,  at  least,  thai  we  could 
depend  on  him  for  upright,  honorable  dealing."  And  Lauucelot's  eyes 
flashed  ominously  and  his  brow  grew  dark,  for  Pauline  was  his  favorite 
sister,  and  the  idea  of  trouble  coming  to  her  through  any  man  alive 
made  him  very  sore. 

Mrs.  Chudleigh  looked  frightened  at  her  son's  expression;  he  seemed 
almost  as  angry  as  he  had  been  in  Bee's  case. 

"  Indeed,  Launce,  you  are  misjudging  Doctor  Maxwell,''  she  returned, 
eagerly.  "  Sorry  as  I  am  for  what  has  happened,  I  am  convinced  that 
lui  never  meant  to  do  wrong;  he  never  spoke  until  after  his  illness,  when 
In;  was  too  weak  to  resist  the  sudden  temptation.  But  let  me  tell  you  & 
little  about  it.  Pauline  wishes  you  to  know,  and  then  you  will  under- 
stand." 

"  I  shall  understand  that  life  is  an  awful  muddle  to  most  people," 
he  returned,  gloomily;  but  she  took  no  notice  of  this. 

"  Well,  you  see,  Launce,  we  were  at  Penzance  when  Doctor  Maxwell 
was  first  taken  with  the  fever,  though  we  returned  home  about  a  fort- 
night afterward.  I  noticed  Pauline  was  very  much  out  of  spirits  just 
then— restless  and  ill  at  ease— but  I  was  far  too  stupid  to  guess'  the 
cause.  I  spoke  to  Bee  about  it,  but  she  threw  no  light  on  it  at  all.  I 
know  now  that  she  was  perfectly  aware  of  the  true  state  of  the  case,  but 
she  did  not  think  it  fair  to  betray  Pauline.  Nothing  had  passed  between 
them,  and  Bee  felt  she  had  no  right  to  pry  into  her  sister's  secret.  Well, 
we  got  back  to  the  Witchens,  and  then  Pauline  seemed  brighter  and 
more  like  herself.  Mrs.  Maxwell  had  been  dangerously  ill  too,  and 
Charlotte  was  almost  worn  out  with  her  nursing,  so  Pauline  went  as  a 
matter  of  course  every  day  to  sit  with  Brenda  and  Aunt  Myra.  She 
used  to  be  there  the  greater  part  of  the  day,  helping  Charlotte  with  one 
or  other  of  them,  and  it  never  entered  into  my  head  that  there  could  be 
any  risk. ' ' 

Laimcelot  groaned,  but  he  did  not  interrupt  her. 

"  When  Doctor  Maxwell  became  convalescent  Pauline  saw  him  almost 
daily.  He  assumed  the  right  of  an  invalid  to  take  possession  of  t he- 
el rawing- room  couch,  and  in  this  way  they  were  thrown  a  great  deal 
together." 

"  And  he  spoke  to  her?" 

"  Yes,  he  spoke  to  her;  but,  Launce,  he  assures  me — for  I  have  seen 
him  more  than  once— that  nothing  was  further  from  his  intention;  that 
1  hough  he  has  loved  her  for  more  than  a  year,  he  never  intended  to  be- 
tray himself.  He  is  full  of  remorse  and  shame  for  what  he  has  done, 
and  accuses  himself  for  his  want  of  self-control  most  bitterly.  He  says 
that  he  of  all  men  ought  to  have  refrained  from  making  love  to  any 
girl;  that  there  is  no  possibility  of  his  marrying  for  the  next  ten  years, 
if  then;  that  his  long  illness  has  only  added  to  his  difficulties;  and  that 
his  income  will  barely  cover  his  expenses  this  3'ear. 

"  '  What  business  had  I  to  tell  Pauline  that  I  loved  her,'  lie  said  to 
me,  '  and  to  draw  from  her  an  avowal  of  affection  in  return?  You' 
ought  to  cut  my  acquaintance,  Mrs.  Chudleigh,  for  I  have  acted  as  dis- 
honorably as  possible  to  your  daughter.'  Oh,  poor  fellow!  I  did  feel 
sorry  for  him." 

"  Of  course  you  forgave  him  on  the  spot?" 

"  Well,  Launce,  you  would  have  forgiven  him  yourself  if  you  had 
heard  him.  Just  consider  the  circumstances.  They  were  together,  and 
lie  was  weak  and  very  low  from  his  illness.  Pauline  told  me  she  was 
just  trying  to  cheer  him  up  when  she  saw  him  looking  at  her  very 


260  ONLY    THE    fiOVERXESS. 

strangely,  and  the  next  minute  lie  to;;l  her  that  she  must  go  away  and 
leave  him,  for  he  could  not  bear  to  have  her  the'-e  and  not  speak;  but 
she  stayed,  and  then  it  all  came  out  that  they  loved  each  other." 

"  I  suppose  Pauline  agrees  that  it  is  a  hopele-s  . 

"  Oh,  yes;  but  all  the  same  she  seems  very  happy,  poor  child!  She 
will  have  it  that  it  is  so  much  better  for  him  to  have  spoken,  that  it  has 
given  her  the  right  to  think  of  him  without  feeling  ashamed  of  doing 
BO.  I  am  afraid  it  has  gone  very  deep  with  them  both,  Launce.  Sin- 
declares  that  she  shall  always  feel  as  though  she  were  engaged  to  him, 
that  she  does  belong  to  him  in  a  sort  of  way,  and  that  she  would  rather 
live  unmarried  for  his  sake  than  marry  any  man  living." 

"  Oh,  but  this  is  all  nonsense.  You  don't  mean  to  say  that  Maxwell 
has  persuaded  her  into  any  sort  of  engagement?" 

"  No,  indeed;  he  has  told  her  in  my  presence  that  she  is  absolutely 
free:  he  even  begged  her  to  forget  his  rash  words.  '  I  deserve  to  suffer,' 
he  said  to  her,  '  but  I  can  not  bear  to  think  that  1  have  shadowed  your 
bright  young  life;'  and  then  turning  to  me  he  said  most  earnestly, '  Yoq 
must  all  teach  her  to  forget  me,  Mrs.  Chudleigh.  She  must  not  waste 
her  youth  and  sweetness  waiting  for  a  time  that  may  never  come  to 
either  of  us.  I  fear  happiness  is  not  for  me,  that  I  shall  never  know 
the  blessing  of  wife  or  child.  Will  you  let  your  son  know  when  he 
comes  home  that  I  make  no  sort  of  appeal  to  his  forbearance — that  I 
resign  all  rights  but  friendship?" 

"  And  what  did  Pauline  say  to  this?" 

"Well,  poor  darling!  she  was  very  impulsive.  She  told  him  just 
what  I  said  to  you  just  now,  that  it  would  be  impossible  for  her  to 
marry  any  one  else,  because  she  should  always  feel  as  though  she  be- 
longed to  him,  but  she  should  be  quite  content  that  they  should  only  be 
friends. 

"  *  But  you  are  free — quite  free/  he  reminded  her.  '  I  ask  nothing 
—expect  nothing. ' 

1  '  Oh,  yes,  I  am  as  free  as  I  wish  to  be,  Hedley,'  she  said,  smiling  at 
him  in  such  a  sweet,  womanly  way.  She  always  calls  him  Hedley,  even 
to  his  mother,  and  after  that  there  was  little  more  to  be  said.  You  must 
talk  to  her,  Launce,  and  see  what  is  to  be  done;  but  you  will  find  her 
very  firm." 

"  Yes,  I  will  talk  to  her,"  returned  Launcelot,  gravely,  "  and  I  think 
I  must  have  a  word  with  Maxwell  too,  poor  beggar!  I  feel  as  sorry  for 
him  as  possible,  but  all  the  same  he  ought  to  have  held  his  tongue." 

Pauline  made  no  effort  to  avoid  the  impending  interview  with  her 
brother.  On  the  contrary,  she  rather  sought  for  it  than  otherwise. 
When  he  asked  her  after  dinner  to  come  with  him  into  the  studio,  she 
at  once  signified  her  readiness  to  do  so,  and  only  her  rising  color,  as  he 
looked  at  her  half  humorously,  half  sadly,  betrayed  her  natural  girlish 
emotion. 

"  Paul!  Paul!  I  am  afraid  you  have  been  very  naughty." 

Pauline's  honest  brown  eyes  grew  a  little  wistful. 

"  I  am  so  glad  mother  has  told  you  everything,  Launce;  I  felt  so  un- 
comfortable last  night,  feeling  you  did  not  know."  And  then  sho 
stopped,  and  continued  almost  in  a  whisper,  "  You  must  not  be  angry 
with  me  or  Hedley." 

"  An:  you  speaking  of  Doctor  Maxwell,  Paul?" 

'•nit  he  is  Hedley  to  me."  Then  Launcelot  put  his  hands  on 
her  shoulders  as  she  stood  before  him,  looking  so  young  and  pretty  in 
her  simple  white  gown,  and  regarded  her  very  kindly 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  261 

"  My  poor  little  girl,  has  it  gone  as  far  as  that?" 

"  Yes,  it  has  gone  as  far  as  that;  but,  Launce,  you  must  not  speak  in 
that  pitying  voice,  as  though  some  misfortune  had  overtaken  me.  I 
would  rather  be  his  friend  and  go  on  as  we  are  doing  all  my  life  long 
than  be  the  wife  of  any  other  man." 

"  You  think  so  now;  but,  Paul,  try  to  look  at  things  in  a  more  rea- 
sonable light;  believe  me  that  I  am  speaking  for  the  interest  of  you  both. 
Such  an  arrangement  as  you  seem  to  contemplate  is  perfectly  impossi- 
ble; it  would  not  work.  How  are  you  to  be  friends  with  a  man  who 
would  marry  you  to-morrow  if  he  could?" 

Pauline  blushed  a  little  at  this  plain  speaking,  but  he  had  not 
•ilenced  her. 

"  I  must  try  and  make  you  understand  better  what  I  mean,  but  it  is 
•o  difficult  to  explain  things.  You  know  mother  has  been  very  kind  to 
us;  she  was  dreadfully  sorry  when  Hedley  spoke  to  me,  but  she  did  not 
forbid  uiy  going  to  Bridge  House.  She  said  she  would  wait  until  you 
came  home  and  see  what  you  would  say,  so  I  have  been  there  as  usual, 
and  Iledley  and  I  have  talked  over  things.  You  are  not  really  vexed 
with  him,  are  you,  dear?"  interrupting  herself  as  she  saw  the  gravity 
on  her  brother's  face. 

"  1  think  he  ought  not  to  have  spoken,  certainly." 

"  Oh,  but  it  was  more  my  fault  than  his;  he  told  me  to  leave  him  be- 
cause he  was  too  weak  to  leave  me,  but  I  did  not  obey  him;  but  indeed 
— indeed — I  would  not  have  it  otherwise;  don't  you  see  that  it  is  just 
this  that  is  to  make  my  life's  happiness?  Whatever  happens,  and  how- 
ever far  we  may  be  separated,  I  shall  always  know  what  I  am  to  him — 
that  in  a  way  we  belong  to  each  other." 

Lauucelot  shook  his  head;  his  man's  reason  protested  against  this 
girlish  sophistry,  but  in  his  heart  he  loved  her  all  the  more  for  her  inno- 
cence and  generosity. 

"  I  don't  think  Maxwell  ought  to  hold  you  to  any  sort  of  engagement, 
either  open  or  implied,"  he  said,  rather  severely. 

"  Hedley  says  the  same  as  you:  he  will  not  let  me  consider  myself 
engaged  to  him;  he  persists  that  I  am  absolutely  free,  and  that  if  I  mar- 
ried to-morrow  he  would  have  no  right  to  reproach  me.  He  begged 
me  to  forget  all  about  it  until  he  saw  that  that  sort  of  talk  made  me  too 
miserable,  and  then  he  said  that  if  it  would  make  me  happier  to  know 
that  he  should  love  me  all  his  life  I  might  be  quite  certain  on  that  point, 
for  be  was  not  a  man  to  change,  but  that  we  must  put  aside  all  thoughts 
of  any  future  together,  for  as  long  as  my  mother  and  sisters  lived  he 
could  see  no  chance  of  his  marrying." 

"  Then  how  do  you  propose  to  act  under  these  circumstances?  You 
surely  would  not  go  to  Bridge  House  three  or  four  times  a  week?" 

"  Why  not?"  she  returned,  boldly,  and  he  could  see  that  she  meant 
to  be  firm.  "  Why  should  I  be  separated  from  my  dearest  friends? 
Charlotte  and  I  have  grown  to  be  like  sisters;  and  as  for  Brenda,  I  think 
I  love  her  more  every  day. " 

"  But,  my  dear  child." 

"  Wait  a  moment,  Launce;  they  know  about  everything,  and  they  are 
all  so  good  to  me.  Mrs.  Maxwell  says  she  is  as  fond  of  me  as  though  I 
were  her  own  daughter;  why  should  I  deprive  them  of  what  is  their 
greatest  pleasure?  Yes,  I  would  go  as  usual,  and  read  to  Brenda  and 
Aunt  Myra,  and  help  Mrs.  Maxwell  with  her  new  stitches;  but  you 
need  not  be  afraid,  I  should  choose  the  time  when  Hedley  is  engaged 
^ith  his  professional  duties.  Wt  should  seldom  meet,  and  never  alone; 


•mi:    <;<>• 

now  ;uul  (lion  i  might  sec  him.  and  :-;n;ik  a  friendly  word  or  two,  1>u' 
you  may  trust  us  both— neither  of  us  would  think  of  seeking  a 

"  But  all  the  same  you  would  think  of  nothing 

"  You  are  wrong,  dear,"  looking  up  in  his  faee  with  a  sweet,  candid 
expression.     "  Only  iru^t  me,  and  you  will  see  how  it  will  work,  how 
content  I  shall   be,  how  eager  to  do  all  you  wish  me  to  do;  in<:. 
mean  to  be  happy,  L-uince;  I  will  not  waste  time  by  fretting  for  what 
may  never  come.     There  was  only  one  thing  I  felt  I  could  not  < 
and  that  nearly  broke  me  down— and  that  was  when  we  were  at  Pen- 
/ance,  and  I  thought  Hedley  would  die  without  telling  me  he  loved  me, 
though  I  could  see  even  then  th:it  he  cared.     Oh!  I  was  so  wretched, 
but  I  did  not  dare  let  mother  or  Bee  know,  though  Bee  guessed  r 
was  as  kind  as  possible;  and  then  we  came  home,  and  when  I  saw  hiii: 
•we  seemed  to  understand  each  other  without  a  word." 

"  Do  you  know  I  can  scarcely  believe  that  it  is  my  little  matter-of- 
fact  Paul  who  is  talking  in  this  irrational  way?" 

"  lledley  says  I  am  not  matter-of-fact  at  all,  only  more  straightfor- 
ward and  easily  contented  than  other  people.  I  do  believe  that  in  spite 
of  drawbacks  I  shall  be  happier  than  most  girls  would  be  under  the  cir- 
cumstances; nothing  would  make  me  miserable  but  being  separated 
from  them  all,  and  never  hearing  anything  about  him.  Oh,"  and  now 
her  eyes  were  full  of  tears,  "you  will  not  refuse  to  let  me  be  happy 
in  my  own  way!  I  will  be  so  good,  Launce.  I  will  try  and  follow 
alt  your  and  mother's  wishes  if  you  will  only  give  in  to  me  in  this 
way." 

Paul,  you  know  I  would  help  you  to  the  fullest  extent  of  my  power, 
but  Maxwell  is  not  the  man  who  would  accept  an  income  with  his  wife 
even  if  I  could  spare  it,  and  you  have  only  one  hundred  and  fifty 
pounds  per  annum  for  your  own  use." 

"No,  indeed.  Hedley  vows  that  nothing  would  ever  induce  him  to 
marry  a  woman  with  money — he  is  very  strong  on  that  point." 

"  But  at  least  I  can  say  as  much  as  this,  that  there  is  no  man  whom  I 
would  more  willingly  welcome  as  a  brother-in-law."  Then  Pauline 
threw  her  arms  round  his  neck  and  thanked  him. 

"  Oh,  I  have  not  earned  your  thanks  yet.  Well,  well,  I  must  think 
over  it  a  bit,  but  remember  you  are  only  twenty,  Paul." 

"  I  shall  be  one-and- twenty  in  March,"  nodding  her  head  defiantly  at 
him. 

"  And  Doctor  Maxwell  is  about  five-and-thirty;  why,  he  will  soon  be 
a  middle  aged  man!" 

"  What  does  that  matter?"  she  returned,  demurely.  "  I  prefer  mid 
die-aged  men."  And  then  Launcelot  felt  she  had  the  best  of  it. 

Launcelot  felt  terribly  exercised  in  his  mind  during  the  next,  few 
days.     His  nature  had  always  been  largely  tinged  with  romance,  and 
all  his  sympathies  were  engaged  in  Pauline  s  unlucky  attachment,     Ik- 
could  both  comprehend,  and  in  a  great  measure  approve  of,  her 
ments,  but  his  common  sense  and  knowledge  of  the  world  we; 
tagonistic  to  her  reasoning. 

Depend  upon  it,  there  is  hope  at  the  bottom  of  all  this  seeming  hope- 

-s,"  he  said  to  himself.     "I  could  detect  it  in  • 

'  Something  will  turn  up,  we  shall  not  wait  forever,'  tlmt  is  what  they 
think,  and  the  uncertainty  will  wear  ih«-m  out.    I  wish  1  could  take  her 
riVht  away,  make  a  ie.il   break,  but.  it  would  ninkc  us  all   mi--e.rable  to 
the  Witchens.     Kv;n  if  I  forbid  her  visits  to  Bri  ihcy 

inust  meet  sometime;;  there  will  alwav-  be  the  chance  of  an  < 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  203 

Then  at  her  age  how  can  I  expect  her  to  submit  blindly  to  rny  judg- 
ment? and  even  if  her  love  for  us  insured  perfect  obedience  to  our 
wishes,  would  she  not  mope  and  pine,  deprived  suddenly  of  all  her 
dearest  interests  ?  I  know  Madella  fears  this  when  she  advises  leniency. ' ' 

Launcelot  could  arrive  at  no  definite  conclusion,  and  was  still  in  the 
same  undecided  mood  when  he  encountered  Dr.  Maxwell  on  Overtoil 
Rise,  returning  from  one  of  his  weekly  visits  to  Miss  Thorpe. 

He  was  walking  slowly,  and  appeared  still  languid  from  his  illness; 
he  seemed  slightly  confused  when  he  saw  Launcelot,  and  hesitated  per- 
ceptibly as  Launcelot  held  out  his  hand. 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you  are  so  much  better,  Maxwell;  but  there  is  still 
room  for  improvement." 

"  Yes;  but  I  am  all  the  better  for  my  stay  at  Bournemouth.  I  am 
twice  the  man  I  was  before  I  went  down  there;"  and  then  he  said,  a  lit- 
tle bitterly,  "I  wonder  you  shake  hands  with  me,  Chudleigh,  after 
what  has  happened!" 

"  You  mean  about  Pauline?  "Well,  as  you  have  paid  your  visit,  and 
we  seem  to  be  going  the  same  way,  we  may  as  well  walk  together.  Of 
course  1  am  very  sorry  about  it,  Maxwell." 

"  Not  half  so  sorry  as  I  am.  I  wish  I  had  bitten  out  my  unlucky 
tongue  before  I  had  spoken  to  her. ' ' 

"  It  was  a  great  mistake,  your  speaking.  When  a  man  knows  that 
he  wrill  be  unable  to  marry,  he  should  be  very  careful  how  he  conducts 
himself  to  a  woman.  It  seems  to  me  such  a  pity  that  a  young  creature 
like  Pauline  should  be  drawn  into  such  a  hopeless  affair." 

"  You  are  quite  right  to  speak  strongly;  I  take  all  the  blame  on  my- 
self. I  know  her  youth  and  innocence,  and  her  position  in  my  mother's 
house  ought  to  have  been  sufficient  protection;  but,  Chudleigh,  when  a 
man  has  been  at  death's  door,  and  is  reduced  to  such  a  pitiable  state  of 
weakness,  he  is  hardly  master  of  himself." 

"  Yes,  I  don't  want  to  be  hard,  and  it  is  no  good  groaning  over  what 
can  not  be  mended;  as  I  told  Pauline,  there  is  no  one  I  should  like  bet- 
ter for  a  brother-in-law,  but  there  seems  no  chance  of  your  filling  the 
character." 

"No,  indeed;  I  have  my  head  below  water-mark  now.  When  a 
man  is  as  heavily  burdened  as  I  am,  and  has  had  a  long  illness  as  well, 
he  can  not  expect  things  to  go  quite  smoothly." 

"  Maxwell,  if  any  temporary  help— a  loan — would  be  of  the  least  as- 
sistance, you  know  how  gladly  I  would  offer  it."  Then  a  dusky  red 
came  to  the  doctor's  face. 

"  Not  from  you.  I  could  not  take  it,"  with  some  emotion.  "  No,  no, 
things  are  not  so  bad  as  that;  please  God  I  shall  soon  right  myself.  I 
only  meant  to  convey  to  your  mind  that  I  have  no  hope  of  marrying,  at 
least  for  the  next  ten  or  twelve  years.  I  have  made  your  sister  under- 
stand this.  There  is  nothing  between  us,  Chudleigh;  we  were  friends 
and  acquaintances,  that  is  all." 

"  Pauline  wishes  to  see  your  mother  and  sisters  as  usual.  I  confess 
that  I  do  not  quite  approve  of  this." 

"  I  hope  you  will  change  your  mind.  I  should  be  more  grieved  than 
lam  now,  which  is  saying  a  good  deal,  if  poor  Charlotte  and  Brenda 
were  to  be  punished  for  my  misdemeanors.  You  do  not  know  what 
your  sister's  visits  are  to  Brenda,  and  the  poor  girl  has  so  few  pleasures 
in  her  life.  Aunt  Myra,  too,  has  grown  to  depend  upon  her." 

"  You  know,  Maxwell,  it  is  my  duty  to  think  what  is  best  for  Paul 
ine's  happiness," 


ONLY    THE    COYl'KN 

"  Yes,  and  it  is  my  duty  to  think  of  it  too,"  returned  Dr.  Maxwell,  in 
a  simple,  manly  way  that  touched  Launcelot.     "J  know  your  si 
heart  thoroughly,  and  1  am  quite  sure  that  it  would  be  better  to  let  her 
be  \\ith  my  mother  and  sisters  as  usual;  you  may  depend  on  my 
ing  out  of  the  way.     I  value  my  own  peace  of  mind  too  much  to  run 
kn  <\vingly  into  danger;  if  we  meet,  our  meeting  will  be  accidental.     A 
man  feels  differently  from  a  woman,  and  Pauline  would  not  understand. 
but  it  is  my  owii  wish  and  intention  to  cross  her  path  as  little  *- 
sible." 

"  I  think  you  are  right;  I  should  feel  so  in  your  case.  A  Veil,  Max- 
well, I  will  agree  to  what  Pauline  wishes,  and  see  how  things  work.  I 
know  I  can  trust  you  both." 

"  I  shall  not  forfeit  your  trust  a  second  time.  Thanks,  Ohudlcigh; 
you  arc  treating  me  with  undeserved  generosity."  And  then,  as  they 
had  reached  the  hall  gate,  he.  stopped  and  wrung  Launcelot's  hand,  and 
went  on  alone. 

"Poor  fellow!"  thought  Launcelot  as  he  retraced  his  steps  a  little, 
"  he  looks  sadly  pulled  down  and  out  of  sorts,  but  I  can  f-ce  now  why 
Pauline  has  lost  her  heart  to  him.  He  is  just  the  sort  of  man  a  girl 
would  iancy — honest,  straightforward,  and  clever.  "Well,  life's  an 
awful  muddle— to  myself  and  Bee  and  poor  little  Paul — but  I  think 
Bee's  affairs  will  soon  look  up;  Elliott  means  to  stick  to  it.  Somehow 
it  takes  a  deal  of  faith  to  get  through  one's  life  with  decent  content- 
ment," finished  Launcelot,  with  a  sigh. 


CHAPTER  XL. 

PAULINE. 

Thou  art  a  girl  of  noble  nature's  crowning. 

HARTLEY  COLERIDGE. 

To  a  certain  class  of  minds  there  is  a  great  interest  to  be  got  out  of 
watching  other  people's  lives;  a  "  heart  at  leisure  from  itself  "  is  some- 
times content  to  expend  its  sympathy  on  others — to  stand  aside,  as  it 
were,  and  look  on.  Launcelot,  who  was  a  little  weary  from  the  crisis 
through  which  he  had  passed,  felt  a  certain  wholesome  stimulus  in  his 
watchful  guardianship  of  Pauline,  in  his  anxiety  that  she  should  not 
suffer  from  her  own  youthful  zeal,  or  the  injudicious  leniency  of  her 
advisers;  the  whole  matter  appeared  to  him  in  the  light  of  a  curious 
problem:  how  would  the  solution  be  worked  out? 

Launcelot,  who  had  always  taken  such  cheerful  views  of  life,  felt 
himself  unaccountably  disheartened  on  Pauline's  account. 

"  She  has  set  herself  an  impossible  task,"  he  said  to  himself: 
will  never  be  able  to  maintain  even  an  average  cheerfulness  under  such 
depressing  circumstances.  Bee's  miserable  love-affair  was  better  than 
this;  its  very  sharpness  and  severity  obliged  us  to  resort  to  rigorous 
treatment.  There  was  no  delay,  no  racillating  policy;  we  are  justified, 
therefore,  on  the  score  of  her  youth  in  expecting  a  permanent  cure. 
ence  makes  the  heart  grow  fonder;'  I  should  be  willing  to  back 
tin  Elliott  to  any  amount.  But  with  Pauline  the  case  is  different.; 
her  spirits  will  be  worn  threadbare  under  these  unnatural  conditions; 
her  youth  will  fade  under  them;  either  her  love  for  Maxwell  will  b« 
Starved  for  want  of  sustenance,  mid  they  will  grow  apart,  or  she,  will 
Ixicomu  soured  witli  the  long  waiting,  and  it'  they  ever  come  togeii. 

r  middle-aged  people  their  happintw  will  be  of  the  humdrum  sort. 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  265 

Ten  years!  why,  his  mother  may  live  fifteen. — twenty — venrs  longer, 
anti  so  may  Brenda  and  Miss  Hoyston;  it  is  the  weakly  ones  \vlio  last 
the  longest  and  hold  most  tenaciously  to  life.  Poor  Maxwell!  he  is  a 
devoted  son  and  brother,  and  I'll  be  bound  he  never  suffers  this  sort  of 
thought  to  cross  his  mind,  but  I  am  only  a  looker-on." 

Pauline  was  not  unaware  of  her  brother's  careful  surveillance;  to  a 
certain  extent  it  touched  her;  but  she  went  on  her  own  way  sedately, 
and  seemed  determined  to  contradict  his  dreary  prognostications;  her 
sturdy,  robust  nature  scorned  to  droop  because  only  a  very  limited  hap- 
piness was  permitted  to  her. 

Pauline's  common  sense  laid  no  undue  blame  on  circumstances. 
Many  girls  were  unhappy  in  their  love  affairs;  more  than  one  of  her 
young  companions  had  been  unable  to  marry  the  man  she  loved. 

"  I  would  not  change  places  with  Isabel  Somers,  whose  lover  jilted 
her  so  cruelly,"  she  thought,  "  or  with  poor  Lydia  Meredith,  who  is  in 
mourning  for  her  fiance.  As  long  as  Hedley  is  in  the  world  and  cares 
for  me,  and  I  can  see  him  sometimes,  I  do  not  mean  to  make  myself  or 
other  people  miserable.  There  is  too  much  selfishness  in  the  world;  as 
Launce  often  says,  '  we  do  not  realize  how  we  act  and  react  on  each 
other,'  and  he  is  quite  right.  I  am  sure  if  Launce  were  in  any  trouble 
he  would  not  spoil  other  people's  happiness  by  refusing  to  take  interest 
in  tilings,  and  I  will  try  to  be  like  him." 

And  Pauline  kept  her  word  nobly;  if  she  suffered — and  there  were 
times  when  she  must  have  suffered — no  one  perceived  the  inner  weari- 
in  her  home  she  was  the  same  bright,  energetic  Pauline,  who 
thought  of  every  one  and  helped  every  one;  whose  quiet,  even  cheerful- 
ness never  failed. 

Only  as  time  went  on  Launcelot's  keen  eyes  noticed  that  a  certain 
staiducss  and  dignity  took  the  place  of  the  fresh  girlishness.  If  Pauline 
had  been  a  young  married  woman  she  could  not  have  held  herself  more 
aloof  from  the  other  sex,  or  have  shown  more  indifference  to  any  hom- 
age paid  to  her.  "Not  at  home  to  suitors  "  was  plainly  written  in 
every  look  and  gesture. 

Pauline's  intense  loyalty  for  her  lover  convinced  her  that  other  men 
were  not  to  be  compared  to  him;  his  intellectual  powers,  his  unselfish  and 
blameless  life,  his  devotion  to  the  sickly  household  that  owned  him  as 
master,  his  patience  under  trials  that  would  have  fretted  most  men  be- 
yond endurance,  made  him  a  hero  in  her  eyes.  "  There  is  no  one  like 
him,"  she  would  say  to  herself  after  an  evening  spent  among  strangers. 
Pauline  did  not  chafe  against  the  orderly  grooves  in  which  she  was  com- 
pelled to  move,  neither  did  she  inveigh  ad  nauseam  against  the  hollow- 
of  life;  she  submitted  meekly  as  of  old  to  all  Bee's  exactions, 
played  tennis,  practiced  accompaniments,  and  fatigued  herself  with  all 
the  new  duets  that  Bee  and  Geoffrey  wanted  to  get  perfect;  in  the  sea- 
son she  put  on  her  very  pretty  dresses  and  went,  under  her  mother's 
wing,  to  the  various  balls,  routs,  kettledrums,  and  concerts  for  which 
Mrs.  Chuclleigh  and  Bee  had  accepted  invitations. 

Pauline  always  went  sturdily  through  her  evening's  work;  she  never 
disappointed  her  partners  by  shirking  dances  or  getting  up  an  excuse  of 
fatigue.  She  talked  to  them  in  a  sensible,  matter-of-fact  way,  which 
they  found  refreshing  after  other  girls'  inanities;  she  was  never  absent- 
minded  or  wanting  in  wrell-bred  interest;  but  then  at  the  same  time  she 
never  seemed  to  understand  the  most  delicately  turned  compliment,  and 
no  partner  however  perfect,  was  allowed  to  inscribe  his  name  more 


2M  ONLY    THE    novi 

than  three  times  on  her  card.     "  11  is  my  rule,"  she  would  say,  simply, 
but  at  such  moments  she  would  summon  up  a  look  of  dignity. 

"  She  is  an   awfully  nice  girl,  lint    \  ou   may  depend  upon  it  thi 
some  one  in   the  background;  there  is  no  running  to  be  niadu'l 

~iid  by  more  than  one  who  would  fain  have  entered  the  1 
Dr.  Maxwell. 

Pauline  fount!  that  her  chief  strength  lay  in  never  evading  a  plain 
duty;  that  in  ministering  to  the  small  daily  requirements  of  others  she 
achieved  tolerable  contentment  for  herself.  Cheerfulness  thrives  on 
unselfishness,  and  one  can  not  begin  to  live  for  other  people  without 
re-.iping  the  reward  ot  a  satisfied  conscience. 

While  Pauline  wrote  her  brother's  notes,  or  walked  or  played  with 
the  children,  or  rode  with  Launcelot,  chatting  with  him  all  the  time,  or 
even  when  she  was  planning  dresses  with  lice's  dress-maker,  she  was 
doing  her  duty  with  the  same  heroism  with  which  a  soldier  does  his; 
she  was  putting  aside  her  own  inclinations  to  serve  others. 

No  one  at  the  Witchens  ever  saw  Pauline  idle  or  dreaming:  her  hands 
were  too  full  for  that — so  many  people  wanted  her;  and  then  there  weir 
her  visits  to  Bridge  House  and  her  sister-like  services  for  Charlotte  and 
Brenda. 

Those  visits  constituted  the  real  interest  of  Pauline's  life;  it  was  at 
Bridge  House  that  her  love  fed  itself  by  tender  ministering  to  Dr.  Max- 
well's mother  and  sisters. 

No  one  interfered  with  Pauline  or  called  her  to  account  if  she  went 
too  often.  Launcelot  soon  discovered  that  Dr.  Maxwell  was  absolutely 
to  be  trusted.  Never  once  did  Pauline  encounter  him  in  his  mother's 
house.  Once  she  heard  his  footstep  pass  the  door,  but  no  one  took  ;my 
notice  of  this.  Pauline,  who  was  reading  to  Aunt  Myra,  Hushed  a  lit- 
tle and  held  her  breath  for  a  moment.  Pauline  hardly  dared  to  acknowl- 
edge to  herself  how  much  she  depended  on  those  visits.  At  the  Witchens 
she  rarely  heard  Dr.  Maxwell's  name  mentioned,  but  in  this  house  she 
could  speak  of  him  without  constraint.  Everything  was  freely  dis- 
d  in  her  presence.  The  last  new  patient  'and  the  article  he  hail 
written  for  the  "  Lancet,"  even  the  book  he  was  reading—"  dear  lled- 
ley's  "  opinions  dominated  that  simple  household,  and  Pauline  felt  as 
though  she  were  living  beside  him  when  even  his  words  were  repeated 
to  her. 

"  You  are  one  of  ourselves,"  Brenda  would  say,  looking  at  the  girl 
fondly.     "  I  wonder  what  Aunt  Myra  and  I  would  do  without  you!" 
Oli.  yes,  she  was  one  of  them.     Did  not  Charlotte  confide  to  her  that 
last  week's  expenses  had  exceeded  the  sum  Hedley  had  given  her?  and 
JiJi-l  not  Mrs.  Maxwell  talked  to  her  for  half  an  hour  on  the  new  cook's 
delinquencies?    Pauline  had  even  helped  in  winding  the  yarn  that  was 
intended  for  Iledley's  new  socks,  and  when  the  five  women  had  scraped 
her  a  small  sum  to  purchase  a  new  easy-chair  for  Hedley 's  birth- 
day, did  not  Pauline  go  with  Charlotte  to  choose  it  because  , 
•isy? 

"  My  darling,  are  you  sure  that  all  this  does  not  try  you  too  much?'' 
Mrs.  Chudleigh  said  once  when  she  and  Pauline  were 'together.  Only 
to  her  mother  did  Pauline  ever  speak  of  these  visits,  and  to  her  but 
rarely;  but  now  and  then  Mrs.  Chudleigh's  maternal  anxiety  broke- 
down  the  girl's  natural  reticence.  "  Are  you  sure  that  it  is  not  bail  for 
you?" 

Pauline  put  down  her  work  and  smiled  in  her  mother's  anxious 
"  1  wonder  what  has  put  that  into  your  head?     1  um  afraid  I  must 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  267 

discharged  my  duties  badly,  or  you  would  never  have  asked  such  a  ques- 
tion.    Are  you  dissatisfied  with  me,  mother?" 

"  My  dear,  no.  I  tell  Launcelot  that  you  are  good  as  gold;  you  have 
ftever  given  me  any  trouble  in  your  life,  Pauline;  a  better  girl  never 
lived."  And  here  Mrs.  Chudleigh  showed  signs  of  emotion. 

"  What  is  it,  then?"  returned  Pauline,  placing  herself  ul  her  mother's 
feet;  but  the  smile  was  still  on  her  face.  "  Is  it  of  me  and  my  happi- 
ness that  you  are  thinking?"  and  as  her  mother  nodded  at  this,  she  con 
tinned  cheerfully:  "Well,  I  can  satisfy  you  on  this  point:  the.se  visits 
to  Bridge  House  are  good  for  me.  I  should  not  be  so  happy  without 
them.  I  seem  happy,  do  I  not?"  with  a  sort  of  wistfulness  in  her 
voice. 

"  Yes,  dear,  you  are  always  as  nice  as  possible.  I  wish  Bee  had  your 
even  temperament  " — for  Bee's  moods  were  still  variable  and  at  times 
stormy — "  but,"  recurring  to  her  first  speech,  "  I  think  in  your  case  1 
should  find  those  visits  very  trying." 

"  You  mean  because  Iledley  and  I  do  not  meet.     Oh,  but  then  I  do 

not  expect  to  see  him,  so  of  course  there  is  no  uncertainty.    If  I  thought 

that  at  any  moment  he  might  enter  the  room,  there  might  be  sonic 

•  for  restlessness,  but  I  know  him  too  \vell  to  expect  such  a  thing." 

"  Yes,  but  all  the  same  you  must  long  to  see  him,"  sighed  Mrs.  Chud- 
leigh. 

"  Yes,  but  one  has  to  bear  that  sort  of  pain,"  replied  Pauline,  quick- 
ly. "  It  is  not  worse  for  me  than  it  is  for  him." 

"  I  think  you  are  both  very  good  about  it." 

"  No,  but  I  try  to  be,"  was  the  quiet  reply,  "  and  those  visits  help 
me,  oh,  so  much. ' ' 

"  How  do  they  help  you,  darling?" 

"  Can't  you  guess,  mother  dear?  Think  how  sweet  it  is  for  me  to 
help  him  even  in  the  most  tritliug  way.  When  I  do  anything  for  his 
mother  and  sisters  I  feel  it  is  for  him  I  am  doing  it;  he  is  so  fond  of 
them  all,  especially  of  his  mother." 

"  Yes,  I  can  understand  that." 

"  Of  course  you  can  understand  it;  were  you  not  in  love  with  father, 
and  he  with  you?"  Then  of  course,  as  in  duty  bound,  Mrs.  Chudleigli 
began  to  shed  tears.  "  Do  you  think  it  is  no  pleasure  to  me  to  sit  there 
and  hear  them  talk  about  him?  They  tell  me  everything  just  as  though 
I  were  engaged  to  him — all  about  his  patients,  and  his  wonderful  cures, 
and  what  people  say.  Sometimes  I  think,"  dropping  her  voice  almost 
to  a  whisper,  "  that  he  likes  them  to  tell  me  things  and  ask  my  opinion. 
lie  never  sends  me  a  message — oh,  no,  he  would  never  think  of  such  a 
thing — but,  all  the  same,  I  know  from  Charlotte's  manner  when  lie  is 
undecided  about  anything,  and  then  if  I  give  my  opinion  it  is  sure  to  be 
acted  upon  the  next  day;  it  was  so  about  the  dining-room  carpet." 

"  My  dear,  it  does  seem  such  a  strange  position  for  a  girl  of  your  age. " 

"  Oh,  but  I  am  growing  older  every  day;  even  Launce  says  that  he 
£an  see  that."  And  then,  to  her  mother's  surprise  and  perplexity,  she 
Suddenly  broke  down  and  hid  her  face  on  her  mother's  lap. 

Mrs.  Chudleigh  was  much  distressed. 

"  What  is  it,  darling?    I  can  not  bear  to  see  you  fret/' 

"  No,  and  it  is  very  selfish  of  me  to  let  you  see  it,  but  I  can  not  help 
troubling  sometimes  to  think  that  one  must" get  old.  I  am  quite  sure— oh, 
quite  sure  in  my  own  mind — that  I  shall  be  Hedley's  wife  some  day, 
but  I  can  not  bear  to  think  that  when  that  time  comes  I  shall  be  no 


208  ONLY   TIT  i:  i  nss. 

longer  pretty  or  young:  it  is  only  for  his  sake  that  I  mind;"  and  hor 
mower  hud  some  dirticulty  in  consoling  her. 

Mis.  Chudloigh  never  mentioned  these  conversations  to  Launcelot. 
Her  girl's  confidence  was  sacred.  All  her  children  brought  their  joys 
and  sorrows  to  her;  even  Geoffrey,  roerved  and  self  -contained  as  he 
was,  would  unfold  his  ambitions  and  plans  for  the  future  to  that  sym- 
pathizing auditor;  never  once  had  she  failed  them.  She  was  not  a 
clever  woman,  but  her  grown-up  sons  listened  to  her  simple,  kindly 
words  with  as  much  reverence  as  though  they  were  endowed  with  the 
wisdom  of  Solomon. 

"Mother  understands  exactly  what  a  fellow  feels,"  Bernard  would 
say  when,  chafing  from  his  brother's  well-meant  rebukes,  he  carried  his 
boyish  fumes  into  the  mother's  room.  The  very  way  in  which  she 
stroked  his  closely  cropped  head  and  the  tone  in  which  she  told  him  not 
to  mind  Geoffrey's  chaff  were  soothing  in  the  extreme. 

Now  and  then  Mrs.  Chudleigh  would  utter  a  little  moan  to  Lau  nee- 
lot.  "  Poor  dear  Pauline,"  she  said  once,  "  I  would  give  much  to  see 
her  happily  settled.  I  wish  I  were  a  rich  woman,  Launce." 

"  Do  you  think  you  ought  to  say  such  things  to  me?"  returned  Lanncc- 
lot,  a  little  hurt  at  this.  "  Don't  you  know,  Madella,  that  the  half  of 
my  fortune  should  be  yours  to-morrow  if  you  needed  it?  But  if  you 
are  thinking  of  Maxwell,  you  might  as  well  ask  him  to  jump  over  the 
moon  as  to  touch  a  penny  of  our  money.  He  is  scrupulous  to  a  fault; 
he  will  never  consent  to  marry  until  he  can  support  a  wife."  And  as 
Mrs.  Chudleigh  acquiesced  in  this  opinion,  there  was  nothing  more  to 
be  done. 

Launcelot  was  always  very  friendly  in  his  manner  when  he  met  Dr. 
Maxwell.  The  two  men  heartily  liked  and  respected  each  other,  and 
on  Launcelot's  part  it  was  a  real  sacrifice  to  principle  to  refrain  from 
asking  Dr.  Maxwell  to  the  Witchens,  but  he  dared  not  do  it.  Often  as 
he  looked  at  Pauline  in  her  pretty,  girlish  gowns,  moving  about  the 
drawing-room  of  an  evening,  and  listened  to  her  fresh  young  voirr,  lie 
was  glad  that  Dr.  Maxwell  should  be  spared  the  sight.  Pauline  looked 
so  good  and  sweet,  he  thought;  even  the  soft  maturity  that  had  crept 
over  her  suited  her. 

But  though  Dr.  Maxwell,  in  all  loyalty  and  good  faith,  never  spoke 
to  Pauline  in  his  mother's  house,  there  were  times  when  they  met  on 
neutral  grounds;  now  and  then  there  was  a  chance  encounter  on  the 
bridge,  or  on  Overton  Rise,  and  occasionally  they  met  at  the  Thorpes. 

Dr.  Maxwell  never  thought  it  his  duty  to  avoid  Pauline  on  these  oc- 
casions or  to  refuse  the  cup  of  tea  that  Joan  offered  him,  and  these  op- 
portunities were  secretly  prized  by  both  of  them. 

Launcelot  was  once  present  on  one  of  these  occasions. 

Joan,  who  was  in  the  secret,  and  was  a  vehement  partisan  of  the 
.  had  been  a  little  eager  and  pressing  in  her  entreaty  for  Dr.  Max- 
well to  stop  and  refresh  himself  with  a  cup  of  tea,  and  he  had  suffered 
himself  to  be  persuaded. 

Launeelot,  who  was  standing  apart  with  Mr.  Thorpe,  told  himself 

vM 


that  no  stranger  would  have  been  deceived  for  a  moment.    Dr. 

hardly  spoke  to  Pauline  at  all  until  the  last  minute,  and  then  the  whole 

world  might  have   hoard   his   words;  nevertheless,  the  real    fads  of  the 

aust  have  been  plainly  legible  to  the  most  casual  spectator,  for  tlm 
absolutely  beamed  al  hi.-  entrance.     A  look  of  perfect  content 

into  li'-r  brown  eyes,  and  yet  rhe  never  turned  hor  head  to  I 
him  until  he  came  up  to  her    while  the  jjlow  in  Dr.  .Maxwell's  ey< 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS*  2G9 

he  caught  sight  of  the  slim  figure  in  gray,  was  perceptible  enough  to 
Lau ocelot,  even  though  he  stood  talking  to  his  hostess  and  made  no  at- 
tempt to  join  Pauline. 

Just  as  they  were  about  to  separate  chance  brought  them  together, 
and  then  Launcelot  heard  him  say — 

"  Vou  were  at  Bridge  House  yesterday,  Charlotte  tells  me;  I  hardly 
expected  you  could  pay  your  usual  visit,  it  rained  so  heavily." 

"  Oh,  I  do  not  mind  rain,'  she  returned,  brightly,  "and  nothing 
would  have  induced  me  to  disappoint  Brenda;  we  are  just  finishing 
such  an  interesting  book." 

"But  you  must  take  care  of  yourself,"  he  replied,  in  a  voice  that 
must  have  had  a  tender  meaning  to  Pauline's  ears,  for  she  blushed  very 
prettily.  "  Brenda  must  not  be  too  exacting,  you  do  quite  enough  for 
them  all;  I  do  not  like  to  think  of  your  walking  all  the  way  from  the 
Witchens  in  that  rain." 

"  IJain  never  hurts  me,  and  I  had  an  ulster  and  umbrella,"  she  re- 
turned, smiling;  "but  if  you  do  not  think  it  right — "  and  here  she 
paused. 

"  It  is  not  right;  please  do  not  do  it  again,  even  for  Brenda."  And 
then  he  took  her  hand  and  said  good-bye,  and  Pauline,  with  a  height- 
ened color,  drew  near  her  brother. 

80  the  winter  passed,  and  then  came  spring;  and  with  the  summer 
the  whole  Chudleigh  family  migrated  to  Scotland.  Lauucelot  had 
promised  his  brothers  to  take  a  shooting-lease  for  six  weeks,  and  Mrs. 
Ohudleigh  and  her  two  daughters  and  Dossie  found  accommodation  at 
a  cottage  near.  Freckles  was  at  a  school-fellow's,  and  Sybil  had  been 
sent  to  a  cousin  in  Devonshire. 

Dossie  was  to  have  gone,  too,  but  she  was  growing  very  fast  and 
looked  delicate,  and  the  doctor  recommended  moorland  air;  so  Launce- 
lot at  once  said  that  room  must  be  found  for  her. 

Dossie  was  still  faithful  to  her  childish  predilections;  she  still  adored 
Mr.  Lance,  as  she  called  him,  and  followed  him  as  closely  as  his  shadow. 

Launcelot  had  not  forgotten  Jack  Weston  all  this  time:  his  step 
mother's  and  Dossie's  letters  were  often  supplemented  by  a  few  lines 
in  Launcelot 's  vigorous  handwriting.  "I  wish  you  could  see  Dossie 
no\v,"  he  wrote  once;  "  she  looks  like  a  little  Gretchen  with  her  trans- 
parent skin  and  blue  eyes  and  great  shining  plait  of  hair.  We  all  say 
1  )o-;.- ie  is  charming,  and  yet  no  one  allows  that  she  is  pretty:  the  shape 
of  her  face  is  perfect,  such  a  pure  oval;  but  for  all  that  one  dares  not 
predict  future  beauty.  At  present  she  is  as  thin  as  a  lath,  but  in  a  year 
or  two  she  will  fill  out.  She  is  just  the  same  gentle,  affectionate  little 
bring,  very  sensitive,  and  ready  to  go  through  fire  and  water  for  those 
she  loves. 

Dossie's  extreme  sensibility  often  troubled  Launcelot.  She  seemed 
made  of  finer  caliber  than  other  children,  and  a  word  often  jarred  on 
her  susceptibilities. 

Early  in  the  summer  Launcelot  had  taken  a  severe  chill  after  over- 
heating himself,  and  for  some  days  he  was  so  seriously  indisposed  that 
his  step-mother  was  quite  alarmed.  There  was  not  the  slightest  danger, 
however,  and  after  a  few  days'  f everishness  and  lassitude  his  good  con- 
stitution asserted  itself,  and  he  shook  off  all  traces  of  illness. 

One  evening,  as  Mrs.  Chudleigh  was  sitting  with  him,  she  asked  him 
if  Dossie  might  ^  come  in  and  wish  him  good-night.  "For,  do  you 
know,"  she  continued,  "  that  poor  child  has  nearly  fretted  herself  into 
a  fever  too,  over  your  illness.  She  has  not  eaten  properly,  and  Pauline 


270  OSTLY    THE 

says  she  lie?.  a\vako  for  hours.     I  wish  she  were  more  like  Sybil,  I  d« 
believe  nothing  AYOiild  make  Sybil  lose  her  appetite." 

Launcclot  was  quite  willing'to  sec  his  little  favorite.     Dossie  came  to 
him  :it  once,  and   Mrs.  Chudleigh  left  them  together.     The  ehil 
tainly  looked  as  though  she  had  been  fretting,  and  Launcelot  gave  her 
a  lit  fie  leeture. 

"  You  ought  not  to  care  so  much  about  me,  Dossie,"  he  said,  smooth- 
ing her  fair  hair;  "  I  am  not  worth  it.     Fancy  getting  pale  and  thin  be- 
L  choose  to  indulge  in  a  feverish  attack!  I  wonder  what  father 
would  say  to  that?" 

"  What  do  you  mean?"  she  asked,  timidly.  "It  is  not  wrong  to 
care  for  you,  Mr.  Lance,  is  it?1' 

"Not  wrong,  certainly,"  smiling  at  her  childishness;  "but  father 
would  think  you  had  grown  fonder  of  me  than  of  him,  and  he  would 
not  like  that—"  But  Launcelot's  half- jesting  rebuke  was  never  finished, 
for  Dossie,  to  his  infinite  discomfort,  covered  her  face  with  her  hands 
and  began  to  cry  bitterly. 

Launcelot  was  much  puzzled.  He  would  not  have  hurt  the  child's 
feelings  for  the  world.  But  she  had  never  minded  his  teasing  before. 

"This  will  never  do,"  he  said;  kindly  but  firmly.  "  What  will 
Aunt  Delia  say  if  she  comes  back  and  finds  you  crying?  Come,  tell  me 
what  it  is  all  about."  But  that  was  just  what  Dossie  could  not  do. 
Her  childish  brain  would  have  been  perplexed  to  explain  where  the 
real  hurt  lay;  the  right  words  would  not  have  come  to  her.  But 
Launcelot's  speech  had  gone  deep;  Dossie's  conscience  was  sadly 
alarmed.  Did  she  care  less  for  her  father— her  own  father — be 
she  was  so  fond  of  Mr.  Lance?  Was  she  at  all  remiss  in  her  memory 
of  that  dear  parent  because  the  presence  of  this  dearly  loved  friend  made 
her  so  happy?  Dossie,  in  her  passionate  fealty  and  childish  worship, 
found  herself  wounded  and  perplexed. 

' '  There  can  not  be  two  fathers, ' '  she  sobbed  at  last,  when  Launcelot 
had  coaxed  and  petted  her  for  some  time.  "  Please  don't  say  such  a 
thing  to  me  again,  Mr.  Lance.  I  never  forget  father — never,  never!" 

"  -My  dear  little  soul,  of  course  not.     Why,  I  was  only  joking,  Dos 

sie.     Now,  if  you  love  him.  and  me,  do  put  away  that  wet  rag,"  regard 

ing  the  drenched  handkerchief  with  much  dismay,  "and  talk  to  me  like 

-onable  child.     Do  you  know,  Dossie,  that  the  idea  has  come  into 

my  mind  that  one  of  these  days  I  shall  go  and  have  a  look  at  falh- 

"  You,  Mr.  Lance?    Oh,  I  should  lose  you  both!"  rather  piteously. 

"  No,  only  for  a  time— a  year  or  so.  I  have  often  talked  it  over  with 
your  aunt  Delia.  It  is  a  favorite  scheme  of  mine;  the  voyage  would  be 
delightful;  and  then  I  have  always  longed  to  see  Australia.  Think  how 
charmed  your  father  would  be  to  see  me." 

"  I  wish  you  could  take  me  with  you,"  observed  the  child,  wistfully. 
But  Launcelot  pointed  out  that  this  was  impossible. 

They  talked  about  it  until  Mrs.  Chudleigh  returned  and  banished 
•',  and,  as  Launcelot  talked,  the  half -forgotten  scheme  came  into 
prominence  again. 

Why  should  he  not  do  it?  he  thought  that  night  and  many  times 
afterward.  Why  should  he  not  carry  out  this  favorite  project?  '  "  ]Vr- 

not  next  year,"  he  said  to  himself,   "but    tLe 
Elliott  'will  be  home  before  that,  and  perhaps  iis  may  1> 

lied.  !  may  walk  into  .lack'  ::  and  wish  him 

Who  knows'?"     And  from  that  moment  the  Australian 
.cd  tntirely  from  Launcelot's  uiiad. 


ONLY    THE    GOVEKXESS. 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

FIVE  YEARS  AFTERWARD. 
Hast  thou  beheld  a  fresher  gentlewoman? 


SHAKESPEARE. 


Her  modest  looks  the  cottage  might  adorn, 
Sweet  as  the  primrose  peeps  beneath  the  thorn. 

GOLDSMITH. 

ONE  lovely  May  morning  the  green  door  lending  from  the  terrace  was 
thrown  briskly  open,  and  si  fat,  rollicking  pug  Hew  out  with  an  asthmatic 
whee/e  of  joy,  and  commenced  barking  at  a  mild-looking  cow  tethered 
among  the  B 

•  For  shame,  Beppo!  you  are  old  enough  to  know  better.  Come  here 
this  moment,  sir:'1  and  the  young  lady  who  had  followed  him  held  up 
u  neat  little  gloved  hand  in  an  admonishing  manner. 

This  young  lady  had  an  exceedingly  pretty  figure,  and  walked  in  such 
a  sprightly,  graceful  manner  that  an  old  clergyman  sunning  himself  on 
a  bench  near  the  VVitchens  turned  round  to  look  after  her.  She  moved 
so  quickly  and  so  lightly  that  her  footsteps  .seemed  to  skim  the  ground. 
JShc  was  dieted  entirely  in  gray,  and  the  only  color  about  her  was  the 
gleam  of  soft,  yellowish  hair. 

The  old  clergyman,  who  had  daughters  and  granddaughters  of  his 
own,  looked  at  her  benevolently  as  she  passed.  The  dainty  little  tig  are 
in  its  mouse-like  trappings  seemed  to  his  old-fashioned  ideas  the  embodi- 
ment of  young  ladyhood — a  complete  personification  of  the  good  old 
word  "  gentlewoman." 

Perhaps  there  was  a  touch  of  demure  coquetry  about  her;  but  what 
wan,  old  or  young,  would  find  fault  with  that— especially  as  there  was 
•pirit  and  character  to  be  read  in  the  small,  oval  face  so  nicely  shaded 
by  the  gray  hat?  If  Dorothea  \Ves ton's  serious  blue  eyes  reeogni/ed 
another  admirer  in  the  white-headed  man  who  regarded  her  with  such 
"vident  attention,  she  was  already  too  much  accustomed  to  such  signs  of 
approval  to  be  flattered  by  it.  Dorothea  could  add  up  her  admirers  by 
the  seore.  All  the  old  gentlemen  of  her  acquaintance  paid  her  compli- 
ments. 

Dorothea's  thoughts  were  not  dwelling  on  any  benevolent-minded  old 
gentleman  this  morning;  she  was  enjoying  the  sweet  spring  sights  with 
all  her  might.  Brentwood  Common  was  delicious  under  the  May  sun 
shine;  a  soft  breeze  was  just  rippling  the  leaves.  Everything  looked 
bright  and  crisp  and  fresh;  even  the  newly  painted  benches  and  lamp- 
.  and  the  yellow  gravel  outside  the  Witchens,  added  to  the  fresh 
ne.-s  of  the  effect. 

"The  world  looks  so  clean  and  good-humored  in  May,"  thought 
Dorothea,  as  she  tripped  between  the  furze  bushes.  "  No  dust,  no  dead 
leaves,  no  bare  brown  stalks  and  odds  and  ends  of  last  year's  leavings, 
nothing  but  nice  little  young  shoots  and  tender  green  everywhere.  I 
suppose  that  is  why  our  ancestors  called  it  the  merry  month  of  May." 

Then  some  deeper  thought  moved  her  as  she  stood  still  for  a  moment. 
"  I  am  glad  that  he  said  May.  very  glad.  Everything  will  be  looking 
its  best— the  garden  and  the  common— and  then  all  the  rooms  have  had 
their  spring  cleaning  and  the  new  curtains  are  up.  Aunt  Delia  has  taken 
sucli  pains,  th«  kousa  looks  beautiful.  There  is  nothing  more  to  be 


272  ONLY    THE    0  OVER  NESS. 

done  now  until  we  know  they  have  arrived,  and  then  won't  Sybil  ami 
I  rob  the  greenhouses!"  And  then  she  quickened  her  steps  and  called 
Heppo,  and  walked  on  in  the  direction  of  Overtoil  Kise.  and  did  not 
pause  again  until  she  reached  ;in  old-fashioned  red-brick  house,  Standing 
fcomewhat  back  from  the  road,  with  a  long  garden. 

Dorothea  opened  the  gate  and  walked  leisurely  up  to  the  house,  tak- 
inii  notice  of  each  shrub  and  flower-border  as  she  passed,  for  she  had  an 
orderly  mind,  and  little  things  never  escaped  her.  By  this  she  added 
to  her  stock  of  pleasures  to  an  extent  hardly  credible  to  absent-minded 
people;  but  to  the  end  of  time  there  will  be  separate  generations  <»i 
and  Xo-eyes,  after  the  fashion  of  the  boy-heroes  of  that  wise  little  talc. 

Dorothea  did  not  make  her  way  to  the  front  door;  she  turned  a-ide 
passing  under  an  arch  where  pale  climbing  roses  would  be  seen  later, 
and  walked  rapidly  round  to  the  back.     Here  there  was  a   pleasant, 
lawn,   with  some  shady  old  trees  at  the  bottom;    and  in  the  sunny 
veranda  a  lady  was  lying  on  an  invalid  couch,  with  a  table  beside  he'r 
covered  with  books  and  writing  implements.     A  fur-lined  rug  co 
her,  and  she  wore  a  dark-blue  hood  drawn  over  her  gray  hair. 

She  looked  up  and  smiled  pleasantly  when  she  saw  the  young  girl. 

"Dorothea,  this  is  nice.  I  was  just  longing  for  a  chat  with  some 
one.  I  have  worked  until  my  head  is  muddled,  and  this  delicious  morn- 
ing makes  me  lazy.  Now  you  must  bring  out  a  comfortable  chair  for 
yourself,  for  I  can  not  think  of  going  in  yet.  Joan  wheeled  me  out 
here  because  she  said  the  air  would  do  me  good.  This  is  my  first  morn- 
ing in  my  summer  drawing-room." 

"I  had  designs  of  bringing  you  out  myself,"  returned  Dorothea. 
She  had  a  soft,  quiet  voice,  and  when  she  spoke  or  smiled  she  showed  a 
charming  little  dimple.  "  It  is  almost  like  summer  to-day;  the  air  is  so 
warm,  and  the  May  smells  so  sweet  on  the  common.  1  suppose  31  is. 
Thorpe  and  the  children  are  out?" 

"  Yes;  but  they  will  be  back  presently,  and  you  are  in  no  hurry,  you 
know.  Joan  left  word  that  you  were  to  be  sure  to  stay.  Now,  what 
am  I  thinking  about?  I  have  never  even  wished  you  happy  returns  of  the 
day;  I  must  give  you  another  kiss,  and  there  is  my  trifling  gift  which 
you  must  take  with  an  old  friend's  love." 

"  How  kind,  how  very  kind!"  returned  the  girl,  her  eyes  sparkling 
at  the  sight  of  the  book,  a  beautifully  bound  edition  of  Mrs.  Urowi 
poems.     "  You  ought  not  to  have  given  me  anything,  Miss  Thorpe;   L 
have  had  so  many  presents  already.     I  must  tell  you  about  them  all, 
and  I  have  brought  Aunt  Delia's  to  show  you."     And  after  enumerat- 
ing the  catalogue,  she  displayed  to  her  friend's  admiring  eyes  a  m 
gold  bracelet  with  a  pearl  clasp. 

'   How  beautiful!     That  is  for  to-night,  of  course.     Well,  many  girls 
hteeu  are  not  so  luck}'.     I  suppose  you  and  Sybil  are  very  excited 
at  the  idea  of  your  first  ball;  *o,  I  beg  Sybil's  pardon,  of  course  she 
came  out  last  year;  ho\v  stupid  I  am  getting!" 

"  I  don't  feel  excited,"  returned  Dorothea,  in  the  quiet  manner  that 
seemed  habitual  to  her.  "  I  am  fond  of  dancing,  but  I  do  not  go  into 
ruptures  as  Sybil  does.  She  will  look  very  well  to-night;  she  is  to  \ve*r 
.  sal  in,  and  Pauline  has  lent  her  her  Venetian  necklace,  and  she 
will  have  a  lovely  spray  of  orchids.  Sybil  is  so  tall  that  she  can  carry 
oil  anything." 

"  res,  and  >he  will  look  very  handsome.     Sybil  is  a  regular  brunette 
.-.     What  is  your  dreas,  Dorothea?" 

"  White,  of  course.     A  (/I'bttliihfi;  must  always  wear  white,  as  Hilda 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  273 

says,"  returned  Dorothea,  with  a  certain  droll  inflection  of  voice  as 
though  she  knew  she  was  saying  something  naughty. 

"  Hilda!  that  is  Mrs.  Geoffrey.  Well,  I  suppose  she  knows  all  about 
it. ' '  And  the  twinkle  in  Miss  Thorpe's  eyes  corresponded  to  Dorothea's 
voice.  "  You  could  not  have  a  better  adviser,  I  am  sure,  on  all  matters 
of  dress  and  etiquette." 

"  So  Aunt  Delia  thinks,  for  she  consults  her  about  everything.  Now 
don't  smile,  of  course  Sybil  and  I  are  dreadfully  naughty  about  [Tilda 
She  is  really  very  nice  and  kind  and  sensible,  but  it  is  only  her  excessive 
propriety  that  makes  us  laugh.  She  is  so  afraid,  and  so  is  Geoffrey, 
that  Sybil  and  I  are  just  the  least  bit  inclined  to  be  unconventional— 
unconventionality  is  such  a  heinous  sin  in  their  eyes." 

"She  is  rather  proper,  certainly.  I  have  only  seen  her  that  once 
when  Geoffrey  brought  her;  I  thought  her  a  very  pretty  young  woman, 
and  rather  nice  in  her  manners,  and  certainly  Geoffrey  seemed  proud 
and  happy  enough." 

"  Yes;  and  they  exactly  suit  each  other,  and  everyone  says  he  has 
an  admirable  wife.  She  is  certainly  very  fond  of  him  and  of  us  all." 

14  Well,  it  was  a  very  good  match.  Of  course  Geoffrey  is  a  rising 
man.  but,  all  the  same,  the  only  daughter  of  a  baronet  with  a  nice  little 
fortune  of  her  own  would  be  considered  a  catch  by  most  young  bar- 
risters; but  Geoffrey  has  plenty  of  brains,  as  Ivan  says;  he  will  make 
his  mark  one  day." 

"  Bernard  will  do  well  for  himself,  too." 

"  Oh,  to  be  sure.  I  had  forgotten  Bernard;  that  was  the  last  new  ex- 
citement in  the  Chudleigh  family.  Bernard's  engagement  has  thrown 
Bee's  son  and  heir  into  the  shade,  though  one  can  not  soon  forget  Mrs. 
Chudleigh 's  delight  at  being  a  real  live  grandmother." 

"  No,  we  were  all  so  pleased  about  that.  Dear  Bee!  how  happy  she 
is!  and  we  all  like  Gordon  so  much;  Aunt  Delia  is  devoted  to  him. 
Don't  you  recollect  how  jealous  Mr.  Lance  pretended  to  be,  and  how  he 
declared  that  Captain  Elliott's  opinions  had  more  weight  with  Aunt 
Delia  than  his?" 

"Oh,  that  was  only  his  fun.  I  never  saw  any  one  better  pleased 
than  Mr.  Chudleigh  when  he  heard  that  Bee  had  made  up  her  mind  to 
accept  Captain  Elliott.  I  am  so  glad  for  all  your  sakes  that  Bee  will 
not  have  to  go  1o  India  after  all  this  year.  It  would  be  too  hard  for 
Mrs.  Chudleigh  to  part  with  her  grandson.  And  now  Bernard  is  en- 
i;aged.  I  wonder  wbat  Mr.  Chudleigh  will  say  to  that?" 

"Aunt  Delia  thinks  he  will  be  pleased.  Elsie  is  such  a  dear  little 
tiling!  We  are  quite  fond  of  her  already.  Geoffrey  and  Hilda  seem 
satisfied  about  it;  they  think  it  is  a  good  thing  for  Bernard  to  be  so 
closely  connected  with  his  chief.  He  is  pretty  sure  of  getting  the  next 
vacant  mastership.  But  Geoffrey  says  they  must  not  think  of  marry 
ing  yet.  He  will  get  a  house  by  and  by,  and  then  he  will  be  sure  of  a 
certain  income." 

"  1  suppose  Miss  Carruthers  will  have  some  money  of  her  own?" 

"  Very  little.  There  are  several  daughters,  and  Elsie  is  the  youngest, 
and  Dr.  Carruthers  is  not  a  rich  man.  Oh,  they  will  do  well  enough, 
Geoffrey  says,  if  only  Bernard  will  not  hurry  on  things.  But  he  is  so 
dreadfully  in  love  that  he  will  hardly  listen  to  Geoffrey." 

"  Well,  his  eldest  brother  may  have  more  influence.  By  the  bye, 
Dorothea,  I  suppose  there  is  no  more  news  of  the  travelers?" 

"  No;  we  can  not  expect  news.  But  Geoffrey  says  that  we  may  have 
8,  telegram  announcing  the  ship's  arrival  at  anytime,  and  then  a  few 


^    Tin: 

hours  will  bring  thorn  to  the  Wltchens.  Just  fancy  if  the  telegram  conic 
to-morrow,  or  the  next  day!  I  shall  certainly  run  down  with  it  to  Spring 
Mead  In- fore  an  hour  is  over." 

"  Thank  you,  my  dear!  you  are  always  so  thoughtful.  You  never 
leave  me  out  in  the  cold.  Few  invalids  have  80  much  to  interest  them." 

"Yes,  Imt  Mr.  Lance  left  you  iu  my  charge,"  answered  Dorothea, 
softly.  "  Do  you  remember  the  morning  when  he  came  to  say  good-bye 
to  you,  and  brought  me  with  him,  and  how  he  said  that  Pauline  \\ 
heavily  burdened  with  the  Bridge  House  affairs  that  he  could  not  lav  a 
feather's  weight  more  oil  her,  but  that  he  hoped  I  should  consider  you 
my  chief  mission  after  Aunt  Delia? — those  were  his  very  words." 

I  remember,"  returned  Miss  Thorpe,  and  her  strong,  sensible 
face  softened  visibly  as  her  eyes  rested  on  the  girl.  But  she  had  never 
been  a  demonstrative  woman,  and  affectionate  phrases  did  not  come 
easily  to  her.  Dorothea  did  not  misunderstand  her;  she  knew  that  the 
friendship  between  them  was  very  real  and  deep.  Dorothea's  tine  deli- 
cacy of  perception  and  sympathetic  nature  had  drawn  them  together. 
As  a  child  Rachel  Thorpe  had  repelled  her;  as  a  woman  she  admired 
and  loved  her — all  the  more  that  years  of  suffering  had  ripened  Rachel's 
liner  qualities. 

If  Miss  Thorpe  had  opened  her  lips  she  would  have  said  that  Dorothea 
had  nobly  fulfilled  her  mission  during  those  eighteen  months.  Many 
an  hour  of  physical  depression  and  restlessness  had  been  soothed  bv  th'e 
girl's  ready  tact;  her  quiet,  sweet-toned  voice  never  jarred  on  Rachel's 
nerves.  She  could  bear  to  listen  to  her  reading  when  a  few  sentences 
from  Joan  would  have  distressed  her.  Joan's  excessive  vitality,  her 
superabundant  energy,  fatigued  the  invalid,  even  if  the  busy  wife  and 
mother  could  have  spared  the  time  to  sit  inactive  in  Rachel's  room; 
dearly  as  Rachel  loved  her  for  her  own  and  Ivan's  sake,  their  natures 
were  too  dissimilar  to  prevent  friction.  Xow  and  then  a  dry,  caustic 
remark  on  Rachel's  part  brought  the  old  flash  to  Joan's  eyes'  and  the 
impatient  answer  to  her  lips. 

Joan  was  always  penitent,  and  accused  herself  of  cruelty  in  no  meas 
urcd  terms  when  she  saw  the  weary  look  on  Rachel's  pale  'face  aft< 
of  these  little  fracases.  "  What  a  wretch  I  am,  darling!"  she  would 
say,  with  a  remorseful  kiss.  "  Scold  me,  please — scold  me,  and  I  will 
ty  a  word."  But  Rachel,  with  much  magnanimity,  never  availed 
herself  of  this  permission.  It  was  only  Joan's  hot  Irish  blood;  she 
would  grow  older  and  wiser  one  day. 

Joan  would  go  sadly  away  and  bemoan  herself  to  Ivan;  her  husband's 
sympathy  was  the  refuge 'that  never  failed  her.  Ivan  was  never  too 
busy  or  too  worried  to  listen  to  her  confessions.  "Never  mind,  dear, 
you  will  do  better  by  and  by,"  he  would  say,  stroking  the  ruddy-brown 
hair.  "  Rachel  is  a  little  crotchety,  but  she  has  so  much  to  suffer,  pool- 
thing!" 

•;nd  I  ought  to  have  remembered  that;  but  it  was  my  horrid 
temper.     No,  I  do  not  deserve  to  be  petted,  Ivan;  you  are  much  too 
good   to  me."     But  Mr.  Thorpe  never  took  any  notice  of  this.     1! 
still  Joan's  lover  as  well  as  her  husband,  and  in  his  heart  he  thought 
Ra-'hel  was  the  one  to  blame. 

Joan's   life  was  brimful  of  interest  now,  with  three  children  in  the 
;y.    Launcelot'a  godson  was  a  line  sturdy  boy  of  six.  with  his  moth 
;iid  next  to  him  was  a  fair-haired   Ronald;  Gwendoline,  or 
Baby  Gwen  as  she  was  called,  was  a  soft,  round  creature,  her  father's 
pit 


OKLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  25 

They  were  all  beautiful  children,  but  Ronald  war  the  only  one  who 
resembled  his  father  in  features.  They  were  all  merry,  high-spirited 
creatures,  with  Joan's  vivacity  and  impulsive  ways — "  my  Irish  rogues," 
as  Mr.  Thorpe  sometimes  called  them — but  he  would  not  have  had  them 
like  himself  for  the  world.  No  father  was  ever  prouder  of  his  boys 
than  he;  in  spite  of  all  Aunt  Rachel's  rebukes,  he  could  scarcely  bear 
to  restrain  their  wild  spirits. 

"  Boys  will  be  boys  "  was  his  favorite  speech,  until  it  became  a 
proverb  in  the  house.  But  for  all  that  he  took  care  that  he  should  be 
obeyed,  and  the  little  lads  were  not  slow  in  learning  this  lesson. 

"  Father  told  us  not,"  was  often  overheard  in  the  nursery. 

"  Father's  a  duck,"  put  in  Gwen,  as  she  came  waddling  across  the 
floor  on  her  fat  little  legs,  with  a  lop-eared  rabbit  in  her  arms,  "and 
(J \\enny  loves  him  muchly." 

i)  he  is,  my  pet!"  cried  Joan,  snatching  up  her  little  daughter  and 
nearly  smothering  her  with  kisses.  "  There  is  no  one  in  the  world  like 
father,  and  mother  loves  him  muchly  too." 

The  conversation  had  languished  for  a  few  minutes  after  Dorothea's 
little  speech.  Rachel  was  thinking  of  those  eighteen  months  and  the 
changes  they  had  brought,  but  Dorothea,  who  was  in  holiday  mood, 
had  sent  her  thoughts  skimming  across  the  ocean;  in  a  moment  they 
hud  boarded  the  "  Atalanta;"  there  were  two  figures  there  that  she 
knew,  Mr.  Lance  and  a  big,  brown-bearded  man  with  broad  shoulders 
and  a  stoop  in  them.  Miss  Thorpe  imagined  that  the  girl  was  thinking 
of  her  first  ball,  and  smiled  benevolently  at  her  rapt  expression. 

"  I  wish  Pauline  were  going  too,"  she  said,  following  out  this  idea, 
and  Dorothea  slightly  started. 

"  Oh,  you  are  thinking  of  the  ball.  But  Pauline  never  cared  for 
them;  she  declares  she  is  too  old  for  dancing  now,  but  that  is  such  non- 
sense ;  she  is  only  seven-and-t wenty,  and  as  pretty  as  ever — prettier,  I 
think." 

"  Yes,  Pauline  is  one  of  those  people  who  will  wear  well,  but  she  is 
not  looking  her  best  just  now.  Poor  Mrs.  Maxwell's  illness  is  such  a 
grief  to  her;  the  poor  thing  suffers  so  much  that  her  death  will  be  a 
merciful  release.  There  is  absolutely  no  hope;  Doctor  Maxwell  told  me 
so  himself.  He  was  here  yesterday;  he  looked  dreadfully  iJl,  poor 
fellow!" 

"  No  wonder,  with  all  his  hard  work,  and,  as  Pauline  says,  he  is  de- 
voted to  his  mother.  And  then  it  is  such  a  pity  that  poor  Prissy 's  mar- 
riage should  be  put  off;  Major  Drummond  can  not  wait  for  her  later 
than  August." 

"  Well,  then,  they  must  get  married  quietly  one  morning.  Prissy  has 
her  outfit  ready,  and  there  need  be  no  fuss;  but  from  what  Doctor  Max- 
well said  yesterday  I  can  see  that  he  does  not  expect  that  his  mother  will 
last  long — it  may  be  over  sooner  than  we  think." 

"  I  hope  so,  for  Charlotte's  sake;  she  is  growing  thinner  every  day, 
but  for  Pauline  she  would  have  broken  down  long  ago.  It  does  seem 
so  sad;  this  time  last  year  they  lost  Miss  Royston;  no  one  expected  that 
in  the  least." 

"  No,  indeed,  poor  Aunt  Myra — '  the  little  blind  saint,'  as  Joan  always 
called  her.  I  think  Brenda  felt  that  most — Miss  Royston  was  her  chief 
companion." 

"  And  now  Mrs.  Maxwell  is  dying,  and  poor  Prissy  is  obliged  to  put 
aside  all  her  bridal  finery.  Prissy's  engagement  was  the  one  bit  of 
brightness  in  Bridge  House.  Don't  you  recollect  how  happy  Doctor 


OXVT    TTTE 

Maxwell  looked  when  you  eongvatulated  him?     Tie  was  thinking  of 
something  else,  I  b,  li 

"  Yea,  1  was  sure  from  his  manner  that  Pauline  was  in  his  thoughts. 
With  Prissy  uiul  poor  Miss  Koyston  oil  his  hands,  there  did  seem  more 
probability  of  his  taking  a  wife.     Well,  Pauline  will  have  to  comfort 
him  for  his  mother's  loss.     Mrs.  Chudleigh  tells  me  that  she  tak- 
full  share  of  nursing,  even  the  night- work." 

"  oh,  yes,  she  -joes  every  day.  Poor  Mrs.  Maxwell  never  seems  easy 
if  Pauline  be  missing;  so  Aunt  Delia  feels  she  must  spare  her." 

"  True,  and  she  has  you  and  Sybil,  so  she  is  not  daughterless,  but  it 
i;  very  trying  for  Pauline;"  ami  to  this  Dorothea  smiled  assent,  Then 
-he  looked  at  her  watch,  and,  with  an  exclamation  at  the  lateness  of  the 
hour,  said  that  she  must  go  in  search  of  Mrs.  Thorpe,  and  Rachel  made 
no  elTort  to  detain  her. 

"  We  have  had  a  nice  long  talk,  and  I  know  you  will  come  soon  and 
tell  me  all  about  your  conquests,"  she  returned,  with  a  warm  kiss. 
"  Now  I  will  rest  until  luncheon,  if  you  will  ring  for  Merton  to  wheel 
me  into  the  sitting-room,"  but  as  Rachel  closed  her  eyes,  it  wasof  Paul- 
ine, not  of  Dorothea,  that  she  was  thinking. 

And  at  that  moment  Pauline  was  kneeling  clown  beside  the  invalid, 
with  a  thin,  shadowy  hand  clasped  in  hers,  and  there  were  tears  in  her 
eyes  as  she  listened  to  her  friend's  feeble  utterances. 

"  You  will  promise  me,  Pauline?" 


_        _  gone.     lie 

will  need  his  wife  to  comfort  him  for  his  mother's  loss." 

"  If  he  need  me,  he  must  tell  me  so,"  almost  whispered  Pauline,  but 
her  tears  dropped  fast.  "  You  may  be  sure  1  shall  do  all  I  can  for  him, 
but,  dear  Mrs.  Maxwell,  he  will,  be  too  heavy-hearted  to  think  of  marry- 
ing then  surely— it  will  be  better  to  wait  a  little  longer." 

"  And  vou  have  waited  six  years  now?  Oh,  Pauline,  I  know  how 
good  you  have  been  to  my  boy.  You  have  just  waited  and  waited,  and 
been  like  an  angel  in  the  house,  and  no  one  has  ever  heard  a  complaint 
from  your  lips;  you  have  been  like  a  daughter  to  me  and  mv  poor  M  vra, 
and  a  sister  to  Brenda.  Oh,  no  wonder  Hedley  loves  you  as  in- 
that  he  thinks  there  is  no  girl  in  the  world  to  compare  with  you." 

This  praise  was  very  sweet  to  Pauline,  though  she  had  no  answer  to 
make  to  it.     Her  patient  devotion  was  reaping  its  reward  now.     No  one 
knew  better  than  herself  what  she  was  to  Hedley,  and  though  for  six 
long  years  no  word  of  love  had  crossed  his  lips,  she  knew  that  sin 
still  his  darling. 

Side  by  side  they  had  worked  together  with  the  wall  of  fate  divid- 
ing them,  but  to  love  like  theirs  there  seemed  no  dividing  boundary. 
For  months  they  might  not  have  interchanged  a  word,  and  yet  there 
seemed  no  break  in  their  communion.  "  It  is  for  life,"  Pauline  had  said 
to  him  when  she  had  acknowledged  her  love,  and  she  had  never  taken 
back  those  words.  Of  late,  since  Mrs.  Maxwell's  illness,  there  had  been 
mueli  to  solace  Pauline.  The  embargo  tacitly  pronounced  upon  their 
intereoursc  had  been  removed  by  the  very  force  of  circumstances;  Med- 
ley eould  not  be  kept  away  from  his  mother's  sick-room,  and  Pauline, 

from  her  night's  watching,  often   felt  the  restorative  pov 
Medley's  grateful  glance  and  smile. 

They  had  few  opportunities  for  conversation  even  then.  Mrs.  Max- 
well's snd  sufferings  prevented  much  talk,  1ml  Pauline  was  quite  content 
to  sit  .-ilent  and  watch  the  mother  and  son  together. 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  277 

Sometimes  Mrs.  Maxwell  would  appeal  to  her: 

"  Do  you  see  how  gray  my  boy  is  getting?"  she  said  once,  when  Hal- 
ley  had  come  up  to  her  bedside  for  a  moment. 

Pauline  blushed  at  this  direct  speech,  but  Dr.  Maxwell  answered  for 
her: 

"  JJoy,  indeed!  Will  you  ever  realize  that  I  am  forty-two,  mother? 
A  man  has  a  right  to  be  gray  at  that  age.  Perhaps  Pauline  thinks  it 
an  improvement;  I  am  sure  I  hope  so,"  with  a  wistful  look  at  the  fair 
face  that  was  even  dearer  to  him  than  ever. 

Pauline  looked  up  and  their  eyes  met.  "  What  does  it  matter,  Iled- 
ley?"  Pauline's  seemed  to  say,  and  he  went  away  satisfied. 

It  was  always  like  this,  fond  looks  and  a  quiet  speech  or  two,  but  te 
Paulina  they  gilded  those  weary  hours  of  sickness;  it  made  her  happy  to 
know  that  Hedley's  care-worn  face  lighted  up  with  pleased  recognition 
at  the  sight  of  her;  she  knew  that  .she  was  taking  her  place  openly  as 
.  though  no  words  to  that  effect  had  passed  between  them. 
That  very  morning  Iledley  joined  them  almost  before  his  mother  had 
ended  her  speech,  and  Mrs.  Maxwell,  with  the  tenacity  of  an  invalid, 
repeated  her  words,  much  to  Pauline's  distress. 

"  My  dear  son,  I  have  been  speaking  to  Pauline.  I  can  not  last  much 
longer,  only  a  few  days,  Doctor  Phillips  thinks,  and  when  I  am  gone  1 
want  Pauline  to  come  here  in  my  place." 

"  She  will  come  all  in  good  time,  mother,  but  we  will  not  talk  of  it 
now,"  and  Dr.  Maxwell's  face  worked  with  pain.  His  mother  seemed 
feebler  during  the  last  few  hours. 

"  Yes.  but  I  like  to  talk  of  it.  I  am  always  thinking  about  it,  am  I 
not,  Pauline?  There  will  be  plenty  of  room  then,  when  Myra  and  I 
and  Prissy  are  gone,  and  there  will  be  money  enough  too,  eh,lledlcyV" 

"  I  don't  know;  I  suppose  so,  mother."  But  Pauline  could  bear  this 
no  longer;  the  muffled  pain  in  Hedley's  voice  was  not  to  be  resisted. 

"  Do  not  talk  to  him  now,  dear.  He  can  not  bear  it;  he  only  wants 
to  think  of  his  mother  now;  there  will  be  time  enough  for  other  things 
by  and  by;"  but  as  Pauline  stepped  back,  pale  from  her  little  protest, 
Dr.  Maxwell  drew  her  to  him  for  a  moment,  and  kissed  her  forehead. 

"  God  bless  you,  my  darling!  Yes,  1  can  only  think  of  my  mother 
now,  but  one  day  I  shall  hope  to  make  up  to  you  for  all  your  goodness 
to  us  all;"  and  here  he  broke  down,  as  strong  men  are  not  ashamed  to 
break  down  beside  the  dying  beds  of  the  mothers  who  bore  them. 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

"THIS  IS  NOT  MY  LITTLE   GIRL." 

This  bud  of  love,  by  summer's  ripening  breath, 
May  prove  a  beauteous  flower  when  next  we  meet. 

SHAKESPEARE. 

And  will  I  see  his  face  again, 

And  will  I  hear  him  speak? 
I'm  downright  dizzy  wi'  the  thought, 

In  truth  I'm  like  to  greet. 

W.  J.  MlCKLE. 

DOROTHEA  went  in  search  of  Joan,  and  found  her  in  her  pretty  draw- 
ing-room busily  engaged  in  making  a  smock  for  baby  Gwen,  who  was 
playing  with  her  doll  at  her  feet. 

Joan  greeted  her  with  her  usual  beaming  smile,  which  always  con 


ONLY    Till:    (iOVKKXESS. 

vfyed  such  a  hearty  welcome,  and  (Jwen  held  up  licr  round  chubb\ 
for  a  kiss. 

"  ( >o  is  Pottie."  she  observed,  with  extreme  satisfaction,  pointing  her 
small  ringer  at  her. 

.loan  hud  developed  into  :i  noble-looking  woman.     She  had  grown  a 
little  stouter,  and  had  a  malronly  air  that  became  her  well,  and  it  was 
•till  the  same  charming  faee,  full  of  life  and  vivacity,  though  the  Irish- 
yes  had  a  far  softer  expression. 

•;  1  would  not  interrupt  you  and  Rachel,"  she  said,  as  Dorothea  lifted 
Owen  into  her  lap  and  sat  down  beside  her,  "  you  seemed  talk: 
co/.ily ;  and  Kachel  is  like  mo'st  invalids,  she  never  thinks  three  is  ,-i 
fortablc  number.      So  I  have  saved   my  congratulations  until 
Look,  this  is  my  little  gift,  dear — ours,  1  should  say,  for  Ivan  ii, 
on  being  included,  he  thinks  so  much  of  your  kindness  to  poor  Kaehel. 
And  then  we  always  look  upon  you  as  belonging  somehow  to  Mr.  C'hud- 
leigk.  and  you  know  he  and  Ivan  are  like  brothers." 

I  know,  and  it  is  very  good  of  Mr.  Thorpe,"  but  Dorothea 
hardly  knew  why  she  blushed  over  Joan's  innocently  meant  speech; 
she  had  always  the  same  feeling  herself,  as  though  in  some  way  she  be- 
longed to  Mr.  Lance.  Joan's  selection  was  a  large  photograph  of  her- 
self and  her  children  in  a  beautifully  carved  frame,  and  Dorothea,  who 
doted  on  the  children,  expressed  great  delight  and  admiration. 

"  Every  one  is  far  too  kind  to  me!     I  never  had  so  many  presents  be- 
fore;" and  then  the  bracelet  was  brought  out,  and  the  ball  toilet  dis- 
cussed with  due  gravity,  for  Joan  loved  pretty  things  as  much  a 
and  she  evinced  quite  a  childish  curiosity  on  the  subject,  which  amused 
Dorothea. 

"  And  I  suppose  you  are  counting  the  days  until  your  father  arrives?" 
observed  Joan,  when  this  topic  had  been  exhausted.  "  Dear,  dear.  I 
remember  as  though  it  wrere  yesterday,  that  afternoon  \\hen  you  sat  in 
the  school-room  and  told  me  about  him.  What  an  old-fashioned  little 
creature  you  looked  in  your  hood-bonnet,  and  how  you  used  to  fret 
about  him!  I  had  to  take  you  into  my  bed  often  and  cuddle  you  to  sleep 
as  I  do  Gwen,  because  you  were  so  miserable." 

"I  know  you  were  very  kind  to  me,"  returned  Dorothea,  with  a 
grateful  recollection  of  her  young  governess.  "  Oh,  yes,  I  can  hardly 
sleep  sometimes  for  thinking  how  father  will  look.  1  never  im; 
for  a  moment  that  Mr.  Lance  would  bring  him  back  with  him.  Thai 
is  why  he  has  stayed  so  long  away,  that  they  might  come  back  to- 
gether." 

"  It  is  another  of  Mr.  Chudleigh's  good  deeds,  but  I  shall  be  glad  for 
Ivan's  sake  when  he  returns,  he  does  miss  him  so!" 

"  Not  more  than  we  do,"  returned  Dorothea,  with  a  sigh.  "  Aunt 
Delia  and  I  always  say  the  "Witchcns  is  a  different  place  without  Mr. 
Lance.  Aunt  Delia  tried  not  to  fret  over  the  delay,  but  sli 
shall  never  have  tfce  courage  to  let  him  go  away  again.  She  will  have 
it  that  she  is  getting  old,  but  I  can  not  see  a  bit  of  difference  in  her, 
neither  can  Pauline." 

"  Of  course  not.  She  is  as  lovely  as  ever,"  replied  Joan,  briskly. 
"What  do  you  think,  Dorothea?  I  had  a  long  letter  from  Fred  this 
morning,  inclosingone  of  his  new  photos.  lie  tells  me  that  he  has  quite 
made  up  his  mind  to  take  holy  orders,  and  that  he  has  told  his  h; 

I  don't  know  why  I  felt  surprised,  but  somehow  I  can  not  fancy 
Fred  a  clergyman,"  and  here  Joan  began  to  laugh  as  she  iiuuted  in  her 
work-box  for  the  photo. 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  279 

Fred,  or  Freckles,  as  his  brothers  still  called  him,  had  been  a  good- 
looking,  melancholy-eyed  lad,  and  had  now  become  a  very  handsome 
young  man,  only  there  was  still  the  same  pathetic  look  of  sadness  in  his 
eyes.  As  Dorothea  took  the  photograoh  in  her  hand  she  began  to  laugh 
too. 

"Fred  is  such  an  absurd  boy,"  she  said,  by  way  of  explanation. 
"  Bernard  is  quite  right  when  he  declares  that  Fred  always  gives  people 
the  idea  that  his  affections  have  been  blighted.  Don't  you  recollect 
the  old  lady  who  fell  in  love  with  him  in  the  railway  carriage,  and  lu»\v 
she  told  Fred  that  she  had  boys  of  her  own,  and  begged  him  to  keep  his 
feet  and  chest  warm,  young  men  were  so  imprudent?  She  evidently 
thought  Fred  was  in  the  first  stage  of  decline." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  think  I  do  remember  something  about  it." 

"  I  know  Fred's  answer  surprised  her,  for  he  told  her  that  he  found 
nothing  so  warming  as  a  good  spell  of  the  dumb-bells  after  a  cold  bath, 
or  a  mile  and  a  half's  run  before  dinner,  all  in  that  lackadaisical  voice 
of  his,  and  his  eyes  closing  as  though  he  could  hardly  prop  up  his  eye- 
lids '  for  sheer  weakness.'  " 

"  Well,  I  always  said  Fred  was  the  nicest  boy  in  the  world,"  returned 
Joan,  reverting  to  her  old  opinion,  "  and  Ivan  says  that  in  spite  of  his 
nonsense  he  is  as  steady  a  fellow  as  he  knows." 

"So  he  is,  and  thoroughly  in  earnest,  too.  Why,  he  has  been  slay- 
ing at  the  Oxford  House  this  Easter  instead  of  coming  home;  he  luis 
taken  up  work  at  the  East  End,  and  means  to  go  on  with  it.  Oh,  Fred 
is  all  right." 

"  My  dear,  he  is  a  Chudleigh,"  replied  Joan  who  had  a  devout  belief 
in  the  Chudleigh  perfection;  and  then  Dorothea  got  up  and  said  that 
she  must  go,  and  Joan  and  Gwen  accompanied  her  to  the  door. 

"  I  wish  I  could  see  her  dressed  for  her  ball  this  evening,"  thought 
Joan  as  she  carried  Gweii  back  into  the  house.  "  Ivan  will  have  it  that 
she  is  not  a  bit  pretty,  but  I  expect  tnat  she  will  look  lovely  to-night. 

There  is  something  very  taking  about  her — fetching,  as  Bernard  calls 
it.  Whoever  would  have  thought  that  Dossie  would  have  turned  out 
so  well?  she  was  such  a  washed-out  little  creature." 

Sybil  would  have  indorsed  this  opinion.  When  Dorothea  entered  her 
room  that  evening,  the  stately  looking  young  brunette  in  her  gleaming 
satin  gave  a  little  exclamation  of  surprise  at  the  sight  of  the  dainty  fig- 
ure before  her. 

"  Oh,  Dossie,  you  do  look  nice!  Doesn't  she  look  nice,  Pauline?"  and 
poor,  tired  Pauline,  who  had  added  the  duties  of  lady's-maid  to  her 
handsome  young  sister  out  of  pure  benevolence  and  love  of  service, 
turned  round  with  an  approving  smile. 

"  Oh,  I  think  you  are  quite  lovely,"  went  on  Sybil,  bundling  up  her 
train  without  ceremony  and  walking  round  her  cousin.  "  Our  chaperon 
Hilda  will  be  charmed — '  Really,  our  debutante  looks  exceedingly  well, 
Geoffrey  '  " — pursing  up  her  lips  and  bending  her  long  neck,  in  evident 
mimicry  of  her  sister-in-law;  and  Pauline  chimed  in  gentty — 

"  Yes,  Dossie  dear,  you  do  look  just  as  I  like  to  see  you." 

Dorothea  gave  a  little  satisfied  glance  at  herself  in  the  cheval  glass, 
and  shook  out  the  folds  of  her  white  gown  sedately.  At  eighteen  one 
likes  to  be  admired,  and  Dorothea  had  her  little  vanities  like  other  girls. 
As  for  Pauline,  she  thought  that  she  had  never  seen  anything  prettier. 
Dorothea  looked  so  sweet  and  girlish;  the  lilies  of  the  valley  just  suited 
her  style,  and  the  little  pearl  necklace  hardly  showed  against  the  white 
round  throat.  Dorothea's  fair  hair  was  drawn  to  the  top  of  her  headf 


280  ONLY     1  KSS. 

which  was  covered  with  soft,  golden  plaits,  and  fastened  with  pent!  pins 
Her  complexion  was  always  pale,  hut  to-night  there  was  a  faint  tinge  ol 
color  Unit  was  very  becoming,  and  her  blue  eyes  were  shining  win 
•d  excitement 

•  me  one  is  sure  to  fall  in  love  with  you  to-night,"  went  on  Sybil, 
as  she  arranged  her  orchids.     "  Don't  you  know  what  the  old 
'  Tall  women  are  admired  and  little  ones  beloved.'  ' 

"  Oh,  but  I  am  not  little,"  protested  Dorothea,  in  an  injured  voice. 
for  this  was  a  sore  point  with  her;  "  other  people  think  I  am  quite  tall. 
except  you,  Sybil." 

"  .Never  mind,  Dossie  dear,"  returned  Sybil,  mischievously;  "  when 
lie  comes  he  will  think  you  just  the  right  height."  But  Dorothea  refused 
to  hear  any  more:  she  caught  up  her  white  draperies  and  made  Sybil  a 
little  courtesy,  and  retreated  from  the  room  in  stately  fashion,  quite 
ignoring  Sybil's  mocking  laugh. 

The  walls  at  the  Witchens  were  thick.     The  two  girls  shut  within 
their  rooms  heard  nothing  of  the  commotion  and  bustle  down-stai 
cub  driving  into  the  front  court,  followed  by  Mrs.  Geoffrey's  brougham- 
doors  opening    and    shutting,    luggage  being  deposited  in   the   hall, 
Geoffrey's  voice  raised  in  exclamation;  then  a  little  cry  as  .Mrs.  C'hud- 
leigh  appears  on  the  scene;  questions,  embraces,  a  general  hubbub,  with 
Mrs.  Genii' ivy  as  on-looker.     "  Dear,  dear,  this  is  very  unfortunai- 
tremely  ill-timed!"  she  observes,  but  no  one  heeds  her.     Geoff; 

ly  assisting  his  brother  to  relieve  himself  of  his  wraps. 
Chudleigh,  with  tearful  eyes,  is  looking  first  at  Jack  and  then  at  Launce- 
lol:  by  and  by  she  recollects  the  children,  and  somebody,  probably 
Geoffrey,  proposes  sending  for  Pauline. 

It  was  at  this  moment  that  Dorothea  made  her  appearance.  The 
door  opened,  every  one  looked  round,  some  one  —  probably  Mrs. 
Geoffrey  again— said,  "  Come  in,  Dorothea."  But  Launeelot  looked  in 
mute  astonishment  on  the  fairy  vision  on  the  threshold.  Was  this 
Do.ssie,  this  pretty  3'0ting  girl  with  piled-up  golden  hair  and  white 
rounded  arms?  Could  Dossie  have  developed  into  this  bewitching  young 
lady?  But  his  surprise  was  no  match  for  Jack's  as  he  stood  tugging  at 
his  rough  beard  and  muttering,  "  This  is  not  m}"  little  girl  Do 

Dorothea  stood  for  a  moment  motionless  with  intense  surprise;  there 
was  a  mist  before  her  eyes,  and  she  could  see  nothing.     It  seem 
clear  at  the  sound  of  Jack's  voice. 

"  Father!  father!  don't  you  know  me?"  she  said,  running  to  him  and 
throwing  herself  in  his  arms.     Mrs.  Geoffrey  groaned  as  she  saw  I  hit, 
close  embrace;  the  lilies  of  the  valley  would  all  be  crushed,  she  thought, 
in  Jack's  mighty  grip.     She  groaned  still  more  as  she  heard  Doroi 
faint  sob — she  was  actually  crying;  her  eyes  would  be  red.     What  a 
humiliation  for  her,  Mrs.  Geoffrey  Chudleigh,  to  introduce  a  red 
crumpled  dihuhuite! 

But,  unmindful  of  the  crushed  lilies,  Dorothea  was  clinging  to  her 
father  as  though  only  her  sense  of  touch  could  assure  her  that  thi 
no  dream.     Was  it,  could  it  really  be  her  own  father?     Jack  need  not 
question  his  child's  identity,  when  her  fresh  young  lips  were  givin- 

"  1  suppose  my  turn  will  come  by  and  by,"  observes  Launeelot  Mros- 
ently.  and  Dorothea  starts  and  looks  round  in  search  of  the  well-!, 

neelot,  who   is   looking;;    iiltlc   older,  a  little  more   luon/ed, 
and  with  a  suspicion  ol  gniy  in  his  dark  hair,  smiles  kindly  at  her. 

"  Oh,  I  did  not.  mean  to  -Mr.  Lance,"  fche  said,  holding  out 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  281 

her  hand  to  him;  and  Launcelot,  who  has  never  been  greeted  in  thi* 
way,  but  who  acknowledges  the  nice  distinction,  lifts  Dorothea's  hand 
to  his  lips  in  courtly  fashion,  and  then  pats  it  before  he  lays  it  down. 

"  And  this  is  my  little  girl,"  observes  Jack,  holding  her  at  arrn's- 
length  as  she  went  back  to  him.  "  Somehow  I  can't  believe  it,  Dossie; 
but  there  is  a  look  in  your  face  that  reminds  me  of  Pen.  Pen  never 
went  to  balls.  I  don't  think  I  ever  saw  her  in  a  white  gown  in  my 
life." 

"  Father,  how  can  you  talk  as  though  you  expected  to  find  me  still 
the  same  little  girl!"  protested  Dorothea.  "  You  have  been  away  eight 
years,  and  of  course  I  am  a  grown-up  young  lady  now  ("  Grown  up,  in- 
deed," muttered  Launcelot).  Now  let  me  look  at  you,"  and  Dorothea 
dropped  his  hands  and  stepped  back  a  few  paces  to  contemplate  him. 

Jack  bore  the  ordeal  rather  uneasily.  lie  had  an  idea  that  he  must 
look  rather  a  rough  customer  to  this  dainty  little  creature,  for  every 
one— even  Jack  and  Launcelot — persisted  that  Dorothea  was  little,  which 
was  not  the  truth. 

Jack  was  older  certainly.  His  hair  and  golden-brown  beard  were 
streaked  with  gray,  and  there  were  deep  lines  on  his  handsome  face;  his 
broad  shoulders  had  not  lo*t  their  stoop,  but  there  was  a  different  stamp 
about  him,  a  more  marked  individuality.  One  felt  instinctively  on 
looking  at  him  that  this  was  a  different  Jack  Weston  from  the  man 
"  who  had  been  no  one's  enemy  but  his  own." 

Dorothea's  eyes  softened  as  she  looked  at  him:  her  nice  perception 
told  her  that  she  might  be  proud  as  well  as  fond  of  her  father.  Perhaps 
he  might  not  be  the  hero  her  childish  fancy  depicted  him,  but  he  was  an 
honest  man  who  had  done  his  work  in  the  world,  who  had  labored  all 
these  years  to  make  a  home  for  his  little  girl.  He  looked  older,  yes,  and 
tired,  but  at  least  they  could  both  feel  he  had  earned  his  rest. 

"  Well,  are  you  satisfied  with  him,  Dorothea?"  and  Launcelot,  who 
had  been  looking  on  at  this  scene  with  kind,  sympathetic  eyes,  moved  a 
Jittle  nearer  to  them.  He  had  planned  and  plotted  for  months  to  effect 
this  reunion;  he  had  had  his  difficulties,  but  perseverance  had  tri- 
umphed, and  as  he  looked  at  the  girl's  radiant  face  he  felt  himself  amply 
rewarded. 

Dorothea  gave  him  a  shy,  startled  look.  He  had  never  called  her  by 
that  name  before,  but  somehow  she  liked  it.  It  was  Hilda  and  Mi.ss 
Tlachel  who  always  addressed  her  in  that  way,  and  latterly  the  others 
had  followed  their  example.  "Dossie  "was  felt  to  be  too  childish. 
Perhaps  Launcelot  realized  instinctively  the  child  Dossie  was  gone — this 
was  a  new  Dorothea  whose  acquaintance  he  had  to  make. 

"  Are  you  satisfied?"  he  asked,  and  Dorothea  turned  round  with  a 
beaming  look. 

"  He  is  just  the  same,"  she  said,  triumphantly,  "  only  he  looks  nicer 
somehow.  Father,  do  you  know  you  are  so  big  that  you  make  me  feel 
quite  a  little  girl  still?  What  a  pity  your  beard  has  grown  gray!  But, 
after  all,  I  do  not  mind;  and  as  for  those  creases,"  indicating  the  lines 
with  her  soft  fingers,  "  we  must  smooth  them  out.  You  have  worked 
too  hard,  and  you  have  had  no  one  to  take  care  of  you,  or  to  talk  to  you 
and  make  you  laugh,  but  it  will  be  different  now." 

"Yes,  indeed,  I  shall  have  my  little  girl  to  look  after  me,"  mur- 
mured Jack,  but  his  deep  voice  trembled  a  little  as  though  he  felt  his 
cup  was  filled  to  the  brim.  And  then  the  door  opened  again,  and  this 
time  it  was  a  young  princess  who  stood  on  the  threshold  with  a  tired, 
sweet-faced  Cinderella  behind  her;  and  then  again  there  was  a  little  hub- 


28 3  OXLY   Tin: 

bub— every  one  speaking  at  once;  more  embraces;  n  few  ear: 

i-n  the  brother  and  sister;  curious  looks  at  the  big  bearded  colonist 
1'roni  Princess  Sybil,  and  last,  but  not  least,  mi  anxious  protest  from 
Mrs.  ( 

Mrs.  Geoffrey  was,  as  Miss  Thorpe  had  described  her,  a  very  pretty 
young  woman.     She  had  an  exquisitely  fair  skin  and  an  extr. 
graceful  figure,  and  her  manners  were  quiet  and  lady-like,  though  at 
times  she  would  assert  herself  with  a  decision  that  somewhat  alarmed 
her  mother-in-law. 

Mrs.  (.'hudleigh  looked  alarmed  now.  Hilda  had  crossed  the  room 
and  spoken  to  her,  and  there  was  a  troubled  expression  on  the  mother's 
placid  face,  which  was  still  as  lovely  as  ever  to  her  childr 

"  Oh,  my  dear,  do  you  think  so?"  she  said,  helplessly.  "  Dossio,  my 
darling,  Hilda  says  that  she  can  not  possibly  wait  any  longer,  and  that 
you  and  Sybil  will  lose  all  the  best  dances." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Aunt  Delia?"  exclaimed  Dorothea,  excitedly. 
"  Hilda  can  not  think  that  I  can  leave  my  father!  What  does  it  matter 
about  the  dances?  Do  you  think  I  should  give  a  thought  to  the 
grandest  ball  in  the  world,  when  I  have  not  seen  my  own  father  for 
eight  years?" 

"Geoffrey,"  returned  his  wife,  in  a  tone  of  calm  exasperation  he 
already  knew  well,  "  perhaps  you  will  speak  to  your  cousin;  there  are 
duties  that  we  owe  to  society,  engagements  that  it  is  only  honorable  to 
fulfill.  If  it  were  any  other  occasion — but  Dorothea  is  a  <.l<'b-u1<intct  and 
such  an  opportunity  to  make  her  appearance  at  Lady  Mervyn's  house 
may  never  occur  again.  1  am  sure,  if  Mr.  Weston  only  realized  the  im- 
portance of  the  occasion,  he  would  be  the  first  to  sacrifice  his  daughter's 
company  for  a  few  hours." 

Mrs.  Geoffrey  seldom  made  such  a  long  speech.  She  wras  a  woman 
of  few  words,  and  governed  her  husband  by  a  judicious  tact  that  allowed 
him  to  think  himself  master,  but  her  smooth  patience  was  milled  by 
what  she  chose  to  consider  Dorothea's  obstinacy. 

"  1  can  not  help  it,  Hilda;  I  am  very  sorry,  but  Sybil  must  go  with- 
out me,"  she  began,  but  Launcelot  interposed.  He  had  been  regarding 
his  new  sister-in-law  critically,  and  had  just  made  up  his  mind  that  iii 
spite  of  her  mild  suavity  Mrs.  Geoffrey  had  a  will  of  her  own;  not  that 
he  disliked  the  look  of  her — he  was  sure  that  she  would  be  even-tempered 
and  reasonable  in  her  demands,  and  a  very  pleasant  person  wilh  whom 
to  live  on  the  whole— but  he  could  see  that  she  was  seriously  disturbed, 
and  that  Geoffrey  was  getting  uneasy. 

"  Dorothea,"  he  said,  gently,  "  I  think  Mrs.  Geoffrey  is  right.     There 
are  certain  duties  one  owes  to  society;  we  ought  not  to  forego  our  en- 
gagements or  disappoint  people  if  we  can  help  it.     It  seems  to  me  that 
tcr-in-law  is  putting  herself  to  considerable  inconvenience  to  act 
as  your  chaperon.     I  am  sure  your  father  will  gladly  spare  you  for  a 
few  hours.     If  you  have  not  seen  him  for  eight  years,  Madella  has  not 
lier  brother  for  eighteen;  will  you  not  trust  him  to  us?     I  will  un- 
dertake to  keep  him  safe  until  you  turn  up  at  break  fast  -time." 

"  Yes,  my  darling,  he  is  quite  right,"  whispered  Jack;  "  go  with  your 
friend-,  DoBsie,  and  1  will  talk  to  Delia." 

Dorothea's  b!'  ew  very  wide  and  piteous.     "  Oh,  must  I  go. 

Mr.  Lance?"  she  asked,  "  is  it  really  my  duty?"  and  as  Launccl<>; 
held  out  his   hand  by  way  of  an  a:  i  her  father  without 

another  word,  and  suffered    Launcelot   to   lead  her  away,  while 
;rey  followed  on  her  husband's  arm  all  smiles  and  good  humor. 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  283 

But  as  Launcelot  stooped  to  put  the  white  furred  cloak  over  Dorothea's 
shoulders  he  looked  into  her  eyes  for  a  moment.  "  You  are  very  good 
and  reasonable,"  he  said,  quietly.  "I  am  very  pleased  with  you, 
Dorothea;"  and  then  aloud,  "  You  will  not  stay  very  late,  Geoil'rey,  will 
you?"  but  his  wife  answered  for  him. 

"No,  indeed,"  she  said  very  graciously.  "Dorothea  shall  decide. 
how  long  she  wishes  to  stay;  she  must  show  herself  and  go  through  a 
few  dances,  but  she  need  not  do  more  than  that.  Of  course  Sybil's 
pleasure  will  be  spoiled,  but — " 

"  Oh,  never  mind  me,"  returned  Sybil,  briskly.  "  I  have  been  to  too 
many  balls  to  fret  over  the  loss  of  one,  and  to-night  it  is  for  Dossie  to 
decide,"  for  even  Sybil  was  touched  by  her  cousin's  gentle  submission 
and  sad,  disappointed  face.  "  Plow  is  she  to  enjoy  herself  when  she  is 
longing  to  be  with  Uncle  Jack?" 

"  Promise  me  you  will  enjoy  yourself,  Dorothea,"  persisted  Launce- 
lot, leaning  forward  into  the  carriage  and  touching  the  girl's  hand. 
"  Don't  make  me  sorry  that  we  came  to-night.  It  was  all  my  fault,  foi 
Jack  wanted  to  telegraph  and  wait  for  to-morrow." 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  will  try  to  enjoy  it,  if  only  to  please  Hilda,"  she  re 
turned;  but  her  hand  felt  a  little  cold  in  his  kind  clasp.  How  could  he 
know  that  the  girl  was  recalling  another  scene!  As  he  led  her  away  shq 
remembered  with  a  shudder,  even  now,  how  she  had  clung  with  all  hei 
childish  force  to  her  father's  neck,  and  how  firmly  Mr.  Lance  had  un 
loosened  her  little  hands  and  had  carried  her  away.  She  could  recollect, 
the  way  he  pressed  her  to  him  and  the  very  words  he  had  said,  "  M}> 
poor,  dear  little  child!  yes,  I  know  you  think  me  cruel,  Dossie,  but  you 
must  have  faith  in  me.  Father  has  given  you  to  me  and  1  am  to  take 
care  of  you  until  he  comes  back.  Try  to  be  good  and  reasonable,  and 
we  will  all  love  you,  and  remember  you  are  my  child  now,"  and  after 
he  had  said  this  he  had  made  no  further  effort  to  check  her  tears,  know- 
ing her  childish  grief  must  have  vent;  but  from  time  to  time  he  had 
stroked  her  hair,  or  patted  the  little  listless  hand,  making  her  feel  his, 
unspoken  sympathy  and  knitting  her  young  affections  more  closely  tci 
himself. 

Dorothea  shed  a  few  quiet  tears  as  the  carriage  rolled  across  the  com- 
mon, but  Mrs.  Geoffrey,  with  a  tact  that  did  her  credit,  left  her  alon^ 
and  talked  cheerfully  to  her  husband  and  Sybil. 

"It  is  very  trying,  dear,"  she  said,  in  a  sympathetic  voice  presently, 
"  but  you  will  feel  all  right  by  and  by.  Geoffrey,  you  must  get  Dorothea 
some  coffee  when  we  go  in;  she  has  been  overexcited.  I  think  a  glass 
of  wine  would  do  her  good,  and  then  she  will  not  look  so  pale.  We  are 
dreadfully  late,  but  of  course  I  shall  explain  things  to  Lady  Mervyn." 

After  all,  Mrs.  Geoffrey  declared  herself  perfectly  satisfied  when  the 
evening  was  over.  Dorothea  had  regained  spirits  and  animation  at  the 
sight  of  the  brilliantly  lighted  rooms.  The  }'.oung  debutante  had  be- 
haved with  great  dignity  and  propriety,-  and  had  met  with  a  great  deal 
of  attention.  Mrs.  Geoff rey  overheard  more  than  one  person  asking  the 
name  of  the  fair-haired  girl  with  the  lilies  of  the  valley,  and  begging  for 
an  introduction. 

"  I  think  Dorothea  is  a  success,  Hilda,"  observed  Geoffrey,  with  an 
admiring  glance  at  his  young  wife,  whose  fair  face  was  a  little  flushed 
with  her  arduous  duties. 

"  She  is  a  darling!"  returned  Hilda,  enthusiastically;  "  she  does  every- 
thing that  I  tell  her.  She  has  danced  twice  with  Howard  Mervyn,  and 
three  times  with  the  Hon.  Edgar  Trumpeton.  Yes,  I  think  we  had  be«r 


284  ONLY   Tin:   <;<>VKRXESS. 

tcr  go  now.     Sybil's  card  is  full,  but  that  can  not  be  helped;  I  promised 
Porollira  that  we  would  leave  early." 

"  Hilda  is  ehanned  with  you,  ""observed  Sybil,  as  the  girls  were  put 
into  the  carriage,  with  rYmvick  to  mount  guard  over  them  on  the  coach 
bitx.     .Mis.  (Jcoll'rey  was  a  little  delicate,  and  it  was  not  thought  advisa- 
ble for  her  to  drive  back  to  the  Witchcns.     The  Geoffrey-Chudli 
had  a  nice  house  at  South  Kensington,  and  Mrs.  Geoffrey  had   her  pri- 
vate brougham  and  her  maid.   "  She  will  be  your  fast  friend  now,  Dos 
sie;  she  has  already  made  a  match  for  you  with  that  bald-headed  young 
man,  Mr.   Trumpeton — the  lion.   Edgar,   she  called  him.     I  think   1 
should  prefer  Howard  Mervyn  myself.     He  is  delightfully  handsome, 
hut  Mr.  Trumpeton  is  the  richest  part/'.'' 

"  Oh,  what  nonsense  you  talk,  Sybil!"  returned  Dorothea,  impatient 
ly.  "  Who  cares  for  Mr.  Trumpeton?  He  danced  well,  and  his  siep 
suited  mine,  that  was  all.  Now  do  let  me  be  quiet  and  think  about  fa- 
ther;" and  as  Sybil  rather  sulkily  complied  with  this  request,  for  she 

in  inveterate  chatter-box  and  longed  to  expatiate  ou  her  cono 
Dorothea  leaned  back  in  a  corner  of  the  carriage  and  gave  herself  up  to 
delicious  musings. 

"I  wonder  if  father  is  asleep?"  she  said,  a  little  plaintively,  as  tin- 
carriage  rolled  into  the  court-yard  of  the  Witchens,  but  as  she  stepped 
out  she  gave  a  little  cry  of  delighted  recognition,  for  Jack's  big  form 
blocked  up  the  door- way. 

"  I  was  not  going  to  bed  until  I  had  had  another  look  at  you,"  he 
said,  as  Dossie  nestled  up  to  him.  "  The  others  are  all  gone;  Launee 
was  sleepy  and  Went  off  hours  ago,  but  Delia  has  only  just  left  me. 
You  are  to  go  up  to  her,  Sybil,  for  she  wants  to  hear  about  the  ball,  ;md 
Dossie  is  to  stay  and  talk  to  me,  but  not  for  long — I  promised  Delia 
that  faithfully!  but  I  must  have  my  little  girl  all  "to  myself  for  a  few 
minutes,"  finished  Jack,  with  a  satisfied  look  at  his  treasure. 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

BUILDING  JACK'S  HOUSE. 

When  a  young  woman  behaves  to  her  parents  in  a  manner  particularly  tend 
1  fill.  ]  mean  from  principle  as  well  as  nature,  there  is  nothing  #ood  an> ! 
that  may  not  be  expected  from  her  in  whatever  condition  sin-  is  phuv.i 

THK  unexpected  arrival  of  the  travelers  and  Lady  Mervyn's  ball  had 
somewhat  disorganized  the  household  at  the  Wilchens;  it  was  not 
prising,  therefore,  that  when  Lauucelot  made  his  appearance  at  the 
time  the  next  morning  he  should  find  himself  the  sole  occupant  of  the 
breakfast-room. 

Mrs.  Chudleigh  had  kept  her  brother  company  while  he  wailed  lor 
Dorothea's  return  from  the  ball,  and  the  hours  had  passed  quickly  in 
listening  to  Jack's  penitent  confessions,  his  account  of  his  brief  married 
life  and  Pen's  perfections,  and  of  his  long,  weary  exile;  while  hi- 
questions  about  "  his  little  girl,"  as  he  still  fondly  called  In •: 
Bwered  fully  by  Aunt,  Delia,  who  could -not  speak  too  warmly  of  D< 
sweetness  of  disposition,  her  unselfishness  and  uondne-s  of  h< 

mcelotwas  in  his.  usual  place  by  the  window  reading  the  "  Ti; 
when  Dorothea  came  in  from  the  garden,  looking  as  l.ri-lit  and  fn 
(hough  she  had  enjoyed  a.  good  i:i  >  instead  of  retiring  I 

She  had  some   Jlov.  ;il  \vttwin 

ore  a  little  white  gown  th  figure  to  perfe< ' 


(XNXY    THE    GOYERKESS.  285 

One  of  the  sudden  bright  smiles  that  had  been  her  chief  charm  as  a 
fluid  lighted  up  her  face  \vlien  she  saw  Lauucelot. 

"  Down  already,  Dorothea!"  he  exclaimed,  in  genuine  surprise,  "I 
did  not  expect  to  see  you  for  hours." 

"  It  was  impossible  to  sleep  on  such  a  morning,"  she  returned.     "  I 
been  round  the  garden  with  Beppo,  and  everything  looks  so  fresh 
and  lovely.     Mr.  Lance,"  looking  at  him  shyly,  "  1  am  glad  to  find  you 
alone,  for  there  is  something  1  must  say  to  you.     Last  night— well,  I 
could  only  think  of  father,  and  there  was  so  much  that  we  had  to  say 
li  other  after  eight  years;  but  when  I  went  up  into  my  room  1  re- 
membered that  I  had  not  said  one  word,  not  one  word,  to  thank  you  for 
bringing  him  back  to  me,  and  yetfit  was  all  your  doing." 

. onsense!  I  have  done  nothing  to  deserve  thanks.  Besides,  you 
wrote  to  me;  1  have  the  letter  still.  Do  you  think  I  have  forgotten  all 
the  pretty  things  you  said  to  me  then?" 

"  I  did  not  say  half  enough,"  she  replied,  with  an  earnestness  that 
made  him  smile;  but  he  thought  the  sky  itself  could  not  be  clearer  than 
those  candid  blue  eyes.'  Even  as  a  child  Dorothea's  eyes  had  been  love- 
ly. "  Why  do  you  say  that  you  have  done  nothing?  but  that  is  your 
way.  Father  and  I  know  better.  We  know  all  the  months  you  stopped 
away  that  you  might  help  him  settle  things,  and  that  he  might  have  a 
companion  for  the  voyage.  You  are  always  doing  kind  things,  Mr. 
Lance,  and  yet  I  must  not  thank  you!" 

"  You  shall  thank  me  if  you  will,  Dorothea,"  he  returned,  taking  her 
hand,  and  then  her  color  rose  a  little. 

"  You  called  me  Dorothea  last  night  and  again  this  morning,"  she 
said,  after  a  moment's  hesitation.  "  I  have  never  heard  that  name  be- 
fore from  your  lips;  before  y^ou  went  away  it  was  always  Dossie." 

"  Ah,  true,"  he  said,  teasing  her  a  little  in  his  old  way;  "  but  last 
night  it  seemed  to  me  that  the  child  Dossie  had  gone,  and  that  one 
would  not  find  her  again." 

"  Gone!"  in  a  hurt  voice. 

"  Well,  why  not?  The  old  order  changes,  and  even  Dossie  can  not 
always  remain  a  child.  There  is  no  need  to  look  at  me  so  reproach- 
fully. \Vhen  I  saw  you  last  night  in  all  that  whiteness  I  said  to  my- 
self, '  This  is  a  new  Dorothea  whose  acquaintance  I  shall  have  to  make. 
This  is  not  the  Dossie  I  left.'  Well,  what  now?"  for  she  had  dropped 
his  hand  and  moved  away,  and  there  was  a  troubled  look  on  her  face. 

"  Oh,  how  you  talk!  and  yet  I  am  not  changed  a  bit.  One  must 
grow  up  and  be  a  woman,  but  I  am  still  Dossie  just  as  much  as  you  are 
Mr.  Lance.  It  is  not  that  I  mind  your  calling  me  Dorothea — I  think  I 
like  it  from  every  one  but  father;  to  him  I  shall  always  be  Dossie — but 
I  want  you  to  feel  that  I  am  just  the  same." 

"  No,  you  are  not  just  the  same— you  are  a  hundred  times  better," 
he  said,  gently,  for  he  could  see  that  she  was  really  hurt.  "I  told 
Madella  so  last  night.  I  wish  you  could  have  heard  her  reply;  I  think 
it  would  have  satisfied  you." 

"  But  it  is  not  compliments  I  want,"  she  returned  still  more  shyly, 
but  a  little  smile  played  round  her  lips.  "  Aunt  Delia  is  always  prais- 
ing people,  and  so  is  Pauline.  They  all  spoil  me,  and  that  is  why  I 
have  grown  so  conceited." 

"  You  are  not  conceited,  Dorothea." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know  that;  I  like  people  to  think  well  of  me,  and  I  am 
disappointed  if  they  do  not  seem  to  care." 

"  Madella  told  your  father  last  night  that  when  he  took  you  away  the 


286  ONLY    TTIE    <;<>vn;N"ESS. 

house  wou'.d  \ose  its  sunshine.     I  call  that  a  very  pretty  speech  for 
Madella  to  make."     l>ut  to  Launcelot's  surprise  the  young  girl  be 
suddenly  serious. 

"  What  do  you  mean?"  she  faltered.  "  The  Witchens  is  my  home, 
is  it  not?" 

"  Yes,  dear,  if  you  and  Uncle  Jack  will  have  it  so.    As  Madella 
the  place  is  big  enough  to  hold  us,  but  how  about  '  the  house  that  .lark 
built,'  eh,  Dorothea? — the  visionary  cottage,  where  .lack  is  to  smoke 
endless  pipes  in  the  back  garden,  while  his  little  girl  sits  and  talks  to 
him." 

Dorothea  grew  very  pale.  "  DO^TOU  mean,"  she  asked,  in  a  low 
voice,  "  that  it  is  still  his  plan  that  we  should  go  away  by  our  two  selves 
and  live  in  a  cottage,  that  he  would  prefer  that  to  the  Witchens?  or  is 
it  only  one  of  your  jokes,  Mr.  Lance?" 

"  Oh,  no,  1  am  not  joking,"  he  returned,  quickly;  "but  you  need 
not  make  yourself  unhappy  about  it.  Your  father  will  do  just  as  you 
wish;  you  have  only  to  tell  him  that  you  would  rather  remain  at  the 
Witchens,  and  he  will  never  say  another  word  about  the  cottage.  Ma- 
della  is  longing  to  keep  you  both.  She  says  Pauline  will  be  settled  be- 
fore long,  and  that  Bernard  will  be  married  soon — stupid  fellow!  and 
that  the  house  will  be  so  big  and  empty  with  only  Sybil  and  myself. 
You  know  Madella  loves  numbers." 

"  Yes,  I  know;  but,  Mr.  Lance,  that  is  not  the  question.  I  have  to 
find  out  what  are  my  father's  wishes,  and  how  I  am  to  make  him 
happy.  That  is  my  duty  now,  is  it  not?" 

"  Undoubtedly;  there  can  be  no  question  about  that'" 

"  Then  will  you  tell  me,  please,  what  he  said  to  you  about  the  future 
— what  were  his  plans,  I  mean,  that  1  may  know  them  beforehand,  so 
that  when  he  talks  to  me  I  can  understand  what  to  answer?" 

"  Why,  Dorothea,  you  look  as  sober  as  a  judge.  My  dear  child,  I 
hope  your  father  means  to  be  our  guest  for  months.  Certainly  dining 
the  voyage  he  spoke  a  good  deal  about  taking  a  small  house  near  the 
"Witt-hens,  that  you  might  not  be  separated  from  your  friends.  You 
man  of  his  age  likes  a  little  place  of  his  own  where  he  can  be  his 
own  master;  and  most  likely,  too,  he  may  feel  a  sort  of  desire  to  have 
you  to  himself." 

"  Thank  you  for  telling  me,"  she  said,  gently.  "But  he  is  not  a 
rich  man,  is  he,  Mr.  Lance?" 

"  Xot  rich,  certainly,  but  he  can  make  you  comfortable  in  a  small 
way:  and,  Dorothea,  your  aunt  Delia  will  still  consider  you  one  of  her 
daughters.  You  must  not  separate  your  interests  from  ours,  or  let 
Jack's  notions  of  independence  affect  you,  for  MadelJa  and  I  will 
always  feel  that  you  belong  to  us.'' 

"  You  arc  very  kind,"  she  returned,  gravely;  "but,  Mr.  La: 
must  make  a  difference.     1  have  my  father  to  consider  now,  and  his 
wishes  will  be  mine,  and  I  must  not  separate  myself  from  him  in  the 
I  am  all  he  has  in  the  world." 

"  lint  you  will  be  his  child,  whatever  happens,"  returned  Launcelot, 
d  iiy  her  uncomplaining  sadne-s.  "  '  My  daughter  is  my  daugh- 
ter all  the  days  Of  her  life/ thai  is  what  the  proverb  says.  Look  here, 
Dorothen.  I  can  see  how  you  feel  about  leaving  the  Witrhens  and  Ma- 
della. L( ••  to  give  it  up.  lie  is  sin-h  a  good  iVllow 
that  lie  will  nevi  is  UK;  old  school-mom,  thai-he  could 
call  liis  den,  and  half  a  do/en  m^ns  besides.  Why,  the  cottage  is  only 
an  idea;  it  will  be  a  dull  life  for  a  young  girl  like  you." 


OHLY    THE    GOVERN  i  28? 

"  And  you  think  that  I  shall  ask  him  to  give  it  up?"  she  replied, 
with  a  touch  of  scorn  in  her  voice,  "  that  I  shall  think  of  myself  at  all 
in  this?  Oli,  Mr.  Lance,  what  an  opinion  you  must  have  of  me." 

"  I  have  a  very  good  opinion  of  you,"  he  answered,  smiling;  "  it  im- 
proves every  minute,  but  I  can  see  no  occasion  for  your  making  such  a 
sacrifice." 

"  And  you  would  have  me  disappoint  him?  Oh,  no,  no!  All  these 
years  he  has  been  working  and  slaving  to  make  a  home  for  his  little 
girl.  Ah,  you  may  joke  about  '  the  house  that  Jack  built,'  but  all  these 
weary  year*  lie  ha*  been  building  it  brick  by  brick,  and  I  am  to  go  to 
him  and  say  that  I  do  not  want  it,  that  I  would  rather  remain  in  my 
own  dear  home  For  it  is  my  dear  home,  and  I  love  it,  I  love  it,  but  all 
the  same  my  father  shall  have  his  wish.  Hush!  here  he  comes.  Not 
one  word  of  this.  Mr.  Lance;  it  is  between  you  and  me.  Now  I  will 
pour  out  your  coffee,  for  you  must  be  tired  of  waiting.  Father,"  as 
Jack  entered  the  room,  looking  bigger  and  rougher  and  grayer  than  he 
had  looked  by  lamp-light,  but  still  a  grand  figure  of  a  man,  "  father, 
you  ought  to  have  rested  longer.  No  one  is  down  but  Mr.  Lance,  and 
I  am  sure  you  are  tired." 

"  I  believe  I  am,  Dossie,"  looking  at  the  girl  fondly  as  she  hung  about 
him,  "  but  there  was  no  sleep  for  me  last  night;  if  I  dozed,  the  thought 
woke  me  that  my  little  girl"  was  asleep  near  me,  under  the  very  same 
roof.  I  could  hardly  help  getting  up  to  assure  myself  that  it  was  the 
truth  and  not  a  dream.  It  seems  so  wonderful  after  all  these  years.  I 
it  last  that  I  gave  it  up  as  a  bad  job,  and  when  I  pulled 
up  the  blind,  there  you  were  gathering  flowers,  and  looking  like  a  white 
May  blossom.  Fancy  niy  little  girl  Dossie  instead  of  log  cabins,  and 
the  lowing  of  cattle  and  bleating  of  sheep!  Somehow  it  seemed  to  me 
like  paradise/'  finished  Jack,  with  homely  eloquence. 

"  Poor  father,  no  wonder  your  eyes  look  tired,  but  I  shall  talk  or  read 
you  to  sleep  presently.  Mr.  Lance,  I  do  not  want  to  leave  my  father 
for  an  instant  to-day,  but  there  is  Miss  Rachel,  and  I  wanted  her  to 
know  of  your  return." 

"  That  is  easily  settled,"  he  returned,  pleased  at  this  new  instance  of 
thoughtful  ness.  Dorothea  seemed  to  show  him  new  developments 
every  minute.  Her  quiet  decision  and  womanliness  surprised  him;  few 
girls  of  eighteen  would  have  had  so  much  character.  "  I  mean  to  go 
down  to  Spring  "Mead  and  report  myself,  so  I  can  give  Miss  Rachel  any 
amount  of  messages.  By  the  bye,"  looking  at  her  steadily,  "  I  believe 
I  owe  you  some  thanks,  there,  and  then  Pauline  came  into  the  room 
followed  by  Sybil,  who  looked  very  handsome  and  lackadaisical,  and 
declared  she  felt  tired  to  death  after  her  ball,  and  then  the  conversation 
became  general. 

Launcelot  kept  his  promise  of  going  to  Spring  Mead,  where  rapturous 
mes  awaited  him.  Miss  Thorpe  did  not  have  her  tcte-d-tete  until 
the  last.  Mr.  Thorpe  carried  him  off  to  his  study,  where  Joan  joined 
them,  and  the  children  came  in  and  made  wild  dashes  at  Uncle  Launce, 
for  Launcelot  had  established  brotherly  relations  with  Ivan  and  his 
wife,  and  was  the  family  friend  and  counselor,  the  man  whom  every 
one  delighted  to  honor.  Launcelot  had  long  ago  conquered  the  oh] 
pain;  hia  strong  will  and  sense  of  rectitude  had  enabled  him  to  triumph. 
He  could  accept  Joan's  frank  affection  with  something  like  gratitude, 
for  she  1  ad  fulfilled  his  dearest  hopes.  Joan's  knight  had  been  jealous 
of  his  lady's  honor  fie  had  striven  with  patient  effort  to  re-establish 
her  in  her  own  good  opinion  as  well  as  in  her  husband's.  In  spite  of 


288  ONLY    THE    <;<>VKi:VESS. 

lier  faul.tiness  he  had  recogni/.ed  her  true  nobility  of  character.  Sht 
had  not  disappointed  him,  and  now  the  time  had  come  that  he  could 
regard  her  with  brotherly  pride  and  goodness,  so  gently  does  healing 
Time  lay  his  finger  on  mortal  wounds. 

.Miss  Thorpe  had  him  to  herself  by  and  by.  Ivan,  who  respected  his 
sister's  invalid  whims,  only  accompanied  him  to  the  threshold. 

"  Rachel  never  feels  strong  enough  for  more  than  one  person  at  a 
time,"  he  explained;  "Joan  and  I  are  the  only  exceptions.  She  still 
suffers  from  those  intense  headaches,  sometimes.'" 

Rachel  was  somewhat  agitated  as  she  greeted  her  favorite.  Her 
nerves  were  not  always  under  control,  and  though  she  chafed  at  her 
weakness  she  could  not  restrain  her  tears  at  first,  but  Launcelot's  gen- 
tleness soon  soothed  her,  and  they  were  soon  chatting  away  in  their  old 
fashion. 

"  How  well  you  look!"  she  said,  presently;  "  I  think  that  little  dash 
of  gray  just  suits  you.  You  look  like  a  colonist  yourself,  so  strong 
and  brown,  and  you  are  actually  broader.*' 

"  I  feel  like  a  giant  refreshed,"  he  returned.  "  I  believe  I  was  get- 
ting dreadfully  homesick  at  last.  I  told  Madella  that  I  should  never 
leave  her  again." 

"  And  how  do  you  think  Mrs.  Chudleigh  is  looking?" 

"Lovelier  than  ever,"  he  returned,  so  earnestly  that  Miss  Thorpe 
looked  quite  amused.  "  Madella  w ill  never  grow  old — at  least,"  cor- 
recting himself  as  though  he  had  been  guilty  of  an  anachronism,  "  she 
will  be  perfect  at  any  age." 

"Mr.  Chudleigh,  I  believe  you  almost  worship  your  step-mother," 
but  he  only  smiled  in  answer. 

"  And  Dorothea?"  she  continued,  after  Pauline's  affairs  had  been 
discussed,  and  a  few  other  family  items  also. 

"  Oh,"  he  said,  lightly,  "  Dorothea  is  a  new  acquaintance;  you  must 
not  catechise  me  too  closely  on  that  subject.     Eighteen  mouths  ago  1 
left  an  unformed,  growing  girl,  and  on  my  return  I  find  a  fn 
young  lady,  a  young  princess  dressed  for  a  ball,  and  of  course  I  am  a 
little  bewildered." 

"  Yes,  I  can  understand  your  feelings.     Dorothea  has  changed  very 
much  during  the  last  few  months.     She  has  developed,  grown  in  < 
way.     I  think  you  will  be  pleased  with  her." 
I  am  very  much  pleased  with  her." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  you  say  that.  I  was  half  afraid  from  }rour  tone 
that  you  thought  Dorothea  was  just  an  ordinary  young  Uuby.  ~We  are 
all  so  fond  of  her  here;  to  me  she  has  been  the  dearest  little  nurse  am' 
companion.  I  could  give  you  a  hundred  instances  of  her  thoughtful- 
ness." 

"  Yes,  she  is  very  much  grown,"  he  returned,  gravely. 

"  I  am  not  easily  pleased,"  returned  Rachel,  smiling,  "  but  Dorothea 
suits  me  perfectly.     She  is  gentle,  and  yet  she  has  plenty  of  character, 
-links  for  herself ,  which  is  more  than  most  girls  do;  and  in  spite 
of  her  culture — for  Dorothea  is  extremely  clever  and  well -read  for  her 
.nd  can  talk  to  Ivan  on  any  subject — she  is  just  as  simple  ami  un- 
ions as  a  child.     And  then  she  is  so  loyal  in  her  attachments,  too, 
FO  absolutely  devoted  to  those  she  loves.     You  are  still  her  hero,  Mr. 
Chudleigh;  Dorothea  never  change"  in  her  allegiance  to  you." 

-he  has  itTOne  conservative  principles.  I  am  old  fashioned 
enough  to  like  that.  'Miss  Thorpe,  1  wish  you  could  have  seen  thu 
meeting  between  her  and  Jack  last  night!  It  was  the  prettiest  scene—1 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  289 

and  Laimcelot's  eyes  softened  as  he  remembered  the  girl's  sweet  looks 
and  words,  and  the  expression  on  Jack's  rugged  face.  After  all,  it  was 
almost  too  sacred  for  repetition;  and  then  he  thought  of  their  conversa- 
tion this  morning,  and  of  Dorothea's  quiet  self-effacement.  "  My 
father's  wishes  must  be  mine,"  she  had  said,  quietly;  and  yet  he  knew 
that  her  girlish  heart  was  wrung  at  the  thought  of  leaving  the  Witdiens. 

Dorothea  had  spent  the  day  quietly  with  her  father.  They  hat!  sat 
together  and  walked  together,  and  no  one  had  interrupted  them.  To- 
ward evening  Launcelot  found  them  on  the  terrace  enjoying  the  sunset. 
Dorothea  was  holding  Jack's  arm;  they  seemed  talking  earnestly  to- 
gether. When  Dorothea  turned  round  Launcelot  thought  she  looked 
a  little  pale  and  weary,  but  there  was  a  bright  smile  on  her  face. 

"  Father  and  I  are  talking  about  the  cottage,  Mr.  Lance,"  she  said, 
brightly,  as  Launcelot  joined  them.  "  Do  you  think  Aunt  Delia  will 
mind  if  we  look  out  for  it  at  once?  Father  says  it  is  to  be  very  near  the 
Witchens,  so  that  I  can  run  in  and  see  you  every  day  if  I  like,  and  that 
will  be  so  nice." 

"I  am  so  afraid  Dossie  will  be  dull,"  observed  Jack,  anxiously. 
"  What  do  you  say,  Launce?  She  has  been  used  to  you  all,  and  then 
you  see  there  is  so  much  luxury  at  the  Witchens.  I  have  been 
talking  to  Delia,  and  she  thinks  it  may  interfere  with  Dossie's  prospects 
to  take  her  away.  She  says  Mrs.  Geoffrey  was  bringing  her  out,  and 
that  Dossie  made  a  decided  hit  last  night.  Fancy  Dossie  a  ball-room 
belle!  I  don't  seem  to  understand  it  somehow,  but  of  course  I  must 
not  be  selfish — an  old  fellow  like  me.  Dossie  will  marry  one  day,  as 
Pen  did  before  her,  but  I  should  like  to  have  her  to  myself  for  a  bit — 
just  a  month  or  two— before  any  young  fellow  comes. " 

"  Oh,  father,  how  can  you  talk  so?"  returned  Dorothea,  with  a 
blush.  "  What  are  young  fellows,  as  you  call  them,  beside  my  father? 
I  do  not  want  to  go  to  balls  and  leave  you,  dear— only,  as  Mr.  Lance 
said  last  night,  we  do  owe  a  duty  to  people,  and  I  should  be  sorry  to 
disappoint  Aunt  Delia  and  Hilda.  Hilda  was  so  kind  last  night,  you 
see,"  with  a  childishness  that  made  both  the  men  smile.  "  Aunt  Delia 
has  given  me  such  lovely  dresses  for  my  first  season  that  I  am  afraid  she 
will  be  dreadfully  disappointed  if  I  do  not  wear  them,  and  we  have  ac- 
cepted so  many  invitations  too.  So  I  asked  father  if  he  would  mind  a 
solitary  evening  now  and  then  while  I  went  out  with  Hilda;  for  if  the 
cottage  be  near,  the  carriage  could  easily  fetch  me,  and  father  says  he 
shall  always  sit  up  for  me,  so  there  would  be  no  difficulty  about  that." 

"  Oh,  there  would  be  no  difficulty  at  all,"  agreed  Launeelot,  as  she 
made  this  appeal  to  him.  "  I  would  take  care  that  you  should  have 
your  flowers  in  good  time.  Stokes  should  cut  them  when  he  cut 
S}rbirs,  and  the  carriage  would  come  all  right." 

"  Yes,  but  you  don't  think  Dossie  will  feel  cramped  in  a  little  place 
after  this?"  looking  round  him;  and  there  was  a  trace  of  uncertainty  in 
his  manner.  "  You  see,  Dossie  has  been  spoiled.  She  has  grown  up  a 
fine  lady  with  a  maid  to  take  care  of  her  things,  just  as  though  she  were 
Delia's  daughter,  and  a  small  house  with  two  servants  and  a  rough  old 
father  will  be  such  a  change  for  her." 

Dorothea  raised  her  lovely  eyes  to  Launcelot  with  a  mute  entreaty 
that  went  to  his  heart.  "  Do  help  me,"  they  seemed  to  say;  "  his  mind 
is  set  on  this,  and  I  can  not  disappoint  him.  What  does  it  matter  about 
me?" 

Launcelot  rose  to  the  occasion. 

"  I  think  it  might  be  tried,"  he  said,  cheerfully.  "  There  is  no  need 
10 


290  ONLY  'i  i:ss. 

to  bind  yourself  to  anything.     My  advice  is,  look  out  for  a  small  fur- 
nished house  about  here,  and  take  it,  say  for  six  months  and  see  how  it 
answers.     Dorothea  can  try  her  hand  at  housekeeping,    and  you  Avill 
soon  sec  how  the  tiling  works.    It  will  be  a  sort  of  branch  establishment 
to  the  Witehens.     We   will   keep  you  stocked  witli  fruit  and  tin 
Stokes  will  see  to  that;  and  Madella's  maid  can  put  Doroth. 
in  order,  and  she  and  Sybil  will  go  out  under  Mrs.  Geoffrey's  wing. 
And  when  you  arc  tired  of  each  other's  company— well,  Fen  wick 
always  lay  two  places  more  at  the  dinner-table,  and  I  will  come  and 
smoke  my  pipe  with  you,  Jack,  while  Dorothea  interviews  the  young 
fellows.  "Why,  it  will  work  excellently,"  as  Dorothea  thanked  him 
with  a  look,  and  Jack's  cloudy  face  cleared  in  a  moment. 

"  It  sounds  first-rate.  What  a  fellow  you  are,  Launce,  for  putting  a 
thing  clearly!  I  was  rather  muddled  over  it.  You  see,  I  could  not 
bear  that  Dossie  should  lose  her  little  pleasures  and  have  no  more  pretty 
gowns,  and  tlowers,  and  fallals  that  girls  have,  but  Delia  says  she  will 
see  about  that;  that  Dossie  is  as  much  her  child  as  ever,  and  that  she 
will  order  all  her  gowns  as  usual.  You  see,  my  pet,"  turning  to  Doro- 
thea, "  I  have  not  grown  rich,  even  in  eight  years,  and  we  can  not 
aifor/1  to  live  grandly— just  a  little  place  big  enough  for  our  two  E 
and  two  tidy  inaids,  and  a  little  strip  of  garden.  That  is  all  we  can 
afford." 

"  Yes,  father  dear,  and  what  could  I  want  more?"  looking  up  at 
him  with  such  love-filled  eyes  that  Launcelot  experienced  an  odd  feel- 
ing that  was  almost  envy.  "  What  does  it  matter  how  small  our  cot- 
tage is,  if  I  have  you  all  to  myself?"  and  as  she  reached  up  to  kiss  him, 
Jack  took  her  in  his  arms  and  blessed  her  in  a  broken  voice. 

"You  have  grown  like  Pen,"  he  said,  huskily;  "she  never  had  a 
thought  but  for  my  comfort.  She  was  a  sunbeam  in  the  house,  was 
Pen,  and  you  will  be  like  her.  I  am  a  lucky  beggar,  Launee.  I  don't 
half  deserve  my  blessings,  but,  please  God,  I'll  learn  to  deserve  them 
better,"  finished  Jack,  reverently. 

More  than  once  Launcelot's  eyes  rested  with  quiet  satisfaction  on 
I )orolhea's  sweet  face  that  evening.  They  were  a  small  party.  Sybil 
had  an  engagement  in  the  neighborhood,  and  Pauline  had  been  sum- 
in  OIK .d  in  haste  to  Bridge  House — Mrs.  Maxwell  was  dying,  and  at  the 
last  moment  Charlotte's  strong  nerves  had  given  way. 

"  This  is  sad  work  for  you,  Paul,"  her  brother  said  to  her,  as  he  put 
her  in  the  carriage. 

"It  is  not  so  sad  for  me  as  for  Hedley,"  she  returned,  quietly;  "  1 
must  think  of  him  now.     Indeed,  I  like  to  be  there,  L;iun> 
understood  his  doubtful  look;  "  you  need  not  pity  me."     And  Pauline 
was  right.     There  was  no  happiness  greater  than  this,  than  to  know 
she  was  the  support  and  comfort  of  that  stricken  household. 

Launcelot  had  invited  the  others  into  his  studio,  and,  as  the  e\  > 
was  chilly,  there  was  a  tire  lighted  by  his  orders,  and  the  four  ga; 
round  it— Launcelot  beside  his  step-mother,  and   Dorothca'in  a  low 
chair  by  her  father.    Jack  h-id  his  pipe,  hut  he  soon  laid  it  down;  . 
now  and  then  his  big  rough  hand  touched  Dorothea's  sofi,  shining  hair, 
smoothing  it  with  infinite  tenderness.      Dorothea  wa>  a  little  quiet  and 
thoughtful.  "ing  to  her  aunt  Delia  and   Lam 

Bernard's  pio-; 

"  The  boy  is  an  ;i  .  vcd   Laimeclot,  with  brotherly  frai 

'Ir  tells  me  that  he  means  to  be  married  before  the  year  is  out.     Why 
he  wait  until  he  gets  a  house?" 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  291 

"  You  see,  he  is  so  much  in  love,  poor  boy,"  returned  Mrs.  Chud- 
leigh,  in  her  motherly  voice.  "  Elsie  is  a  dear  girl,  and  we  are  all  so 
fond  of  her,  even  Hilda.  Doctor  Carruthers  makes  no  objections,  so  I 
suppose  Bernard  must  have  his  way." 

"  1  call  it  confoundedly  impertinent  to  get  married  before  his  elder 
brother,"  returned  Lauucelot.  "  Now,  Madella,  don't  look  at  me  with 
those  reproachful  eyes,  as  though  you  did  not  know  I  was  a  confirmed 
old  bachelor.  Why,  I  shall  be  forty  next  birthday,"  observed  Launce- 
lot,  blandly. 

But  Mrs.  Olmdleigh  only  said,  indignantly,  "What  of  that?  You 
are  quite  young-looking  still.  Isn't  he,  Dorothea!  He  could  marry  to- 
morrow, if  he  liked.  Any  girl  would  be  proud  to  have  Launce." 

But  Dorothea  did  not  answer;  perhaps  the  question  escaped  her,  only 
as  Jack's  hand  touched  her  again,  she  took  it  in  both  hers  and  kissed  it. 
"  It  is  growing  late,  father,"  he  heard  her  say. 


CHAPTER  XLIY. 

DOROTHEA. 

If  loving  hearts  were  never  lonely, 

If  all  they  wished  might  always  be, 
Accepting  what  they  looked  for  only, 

They  might  be  glad— but  not  in  Thee. 

A. 

A  maiden  never  loved 
Of  spirit  so  still  and  quiet  that  her  motion 
Blushed  at  herself. 

SHAKESPEARE. 

THE  next  two  or  three  weeks  passed  away  smoothly  and  pleasantly  at 
the  Witchens.  To  Dorothea  and  her  father  the  month  that  followed 
Jack's  return  was  simply  perfect,  a  time  of  such  exquisite  happiness  as 
few  poor  mortals  are  permitted  to  enjoy. 

Jack  still  talked  a  great  deal  about  the  cottage,  and  spent  hours  in 
searching  the  immediate  neighborhood,  but  as  yet  his  efforts  had  not 
been  rewarded  by  success.  No  suitable  house  could  be  found,  so  Jack 
wisely  resigned  himself  to  his  fate  and  spent  his  mornings  in  the  old 
school-room,  as  it  was  still  called,  which  had  been  given  up  to  his  use. 
Here  he  and  Dorothea  passed  many  pleasant  hours,  Jack  at  his  easel 
finishing  some  sketches  that  Launcelot  had  praised,  and  Dorothea  work- 
ing beside  him  or  reading  aloud,  or  practicing  her  new  songs,  or  trip- 
ping about  the  room  arranging  flowers  and  feeding  her  birds,  for  she 
\vas  never  idle  a  minute. 

Jack  liked  the  pretty,  old-fashioned  room.  lie  owned  that  it  was 
almost  as  good  as  living  in  the  cottage,  for  both  Launcelot  and  Mrs. 
Chudleigh  took  care  that  there  should  be  no  interruptions.  4<  Jack  must 
have  her  all  to  himself  for  a  little  while,"  Launcelot  would  say;  "  we 
must  not  grudge  him  Dorothea's  society." 

So  Jack  Weston  was  made  happy  in  his  own  way.  He  had  his  little 
girl's  sunny  face  always  beside  him;  no  one  found  fault  when  he 
smoked  his  pipes,  or  sauntered  about  the  garden  in  a  favorite  shabby 
rout.  Jack  could  make  himself  spruce  at  times,  when  he  and  Dorothea 
took  their  long  walks  or  rides  together.  Launcelot  had  hired  a  stout 
mi)  for  Jack's  use,  and  now  and  then  he  would  join  them.  How  Don> 
then  enjoyed  those  rides,  and  what  a  pretty  little  horsewoman  she  looked 


:  1,-NKSS. 

cantering  brside  them  on  her  bay  marc,  with  her  fair  hair  shilling  under 
her  1 

Now  and  then  Dorothea  had  to  put  on  one  of  her  pretty  gowns  and 
go  grumbling  and  protesting  to  some  ball  or  "at  home  under  Mrs. 
Geoffrey's  wing.  How  restless  Jack  was  on  these  occasions!  how  big 
and  empty  the  great  drawing-room  looked  when  the  girls  had 
"  Let  us  go  and  nave  a  smoke  somewhere,  Launce,"  Jack  would  say; 
"  I  am  going  to  sit  up  for  Dossie,  and  1  must  do  something  to  while 
away  the  time,"  and  he  and  Launcelot  would  adjourn  to  the  studio. 

Those  evenings  were  dull  even  to  Launcelot;  he  missed  the  boys'  jokes 
and  Bee's  sprightly  conversation.  Pauline  was  quiet  and  subdued,  and 
talked  very  little;  she  moved  about  softly  in  her  black  dress,  doing  little 
services  for  one  and  another.  But  the  loss  of  her  kind  friend,  and  the 
grief  of  the  bereaved  household,  weighed  on  her  spirits  and  depi 
her.  It  was  quite  a  relief  to  her  when  the  two  gentlemen  went  oil  and 
left  her  wuth  her  mother.  Uncle  Jack's  company  imposed  some  degree 
of  restraint  on  the  Conversation,  and  Pauline  could  not  bring  herself  t6 
speak  about  her  friends  at  Bridge  House  to  an}r  one  but  her  mother. 

"  It  does  seem  so  dreadful  for  poor  Prissy,"  observed  Mrs.  Chudleigh, 
in  a  sympathizing  voice,  on  one  of  these  occasions.  Pauline  had  brought 
her  work  to  the  little  table  where  her  mother's  favorite  lamp  stood. 
Jack  had  carried  off  Lauucelot  to  the  terrace  for  a  moonlight  saunter, 
and  Sybil  and  Dorothea  were  being  driven  to  Hyde  Park  Gate,  where 
the  Trumpetons  were  giving  a  grand  ball.  "  Of  course,  we  know 
Major  Drummond  can  not  wait,  and  that  it  will  be  a  quiet  wedding, 
but  still  for  a  bride  to  be  in  mourning  I  must  say  I  am  sorry  for 
Prissy." 

"  Of  course  it  is  sad,*'  returning  Pauline,  "  but  I  never  could  under- 
stand why  a  wedding  need  be  gay.  Prissy  will  feel  just  as  much  mar- 
ried though  she  only  walked  to  the  church  in  the  early  morning  in  her 
traveling-dress.  She  will  not  wear  black,  of  course.  Hedley  was 
shocked  at  the  idea,  and  so  was  Brenda,  but  a  soft  pretty  gray  will  just 
suit  Prissy. ' ' 

"  And  they  are  to  be  married  on  Thursday?" 

"  Yes;  Launcelot  and  I  are  to  meet  them  at  the  church  at  half  past 
nine.  There  will  be  no  one  but  Hedley  and  Charlotte,  and  a  cousin  of 
Major  Drummond's  who  is  to  act  as  best  man.  We  are  to  go  back  to 
breakfast  at  Bridge  House,  and  by  eleven  o'clock  Prissy  will  have 
good-bye,  but  they  will  see  her  again  in  a  fortnight's  time,  just  before 
they  start." 

"  I  think  that  is  very  nicely  arranged.  They  could  hardly  have  done 
otherwise,  as  poor  Mrs.  Maxwell  has  only  been  dead  three  weeks.  Poor 
Prissy  will  feel  leaving  under  such  circumstances;  and  then  Charlotte 
lias  been  so  ill." 

' '  Hedley  says  she  is  much  better  now,  but  she  looks  wretchedly 
thin." 

"  So  does  Hedley.  I  suppose,  Pauline,  that  he  has  not  spoken  to  you 
yet?" 

"  No,  mother,  we  have  never  been  alone  for  a  minute.  And  then  he 
is  loo  unhappy;  he  thinks  of  nothing  but  his  mother." 

"  It  is  very  trying  for  you,  my  darling,  but,  as  Launce  says,  it  is  only 
what  ho  expected.  At  one  time  there  seemed  no  pm-peel  a't  all  of  your 
inarri.-ii.re,  but  he  thinks  Hedley  ouijil  to  settle  tilings  now." 

••  will,  but,   then;  is  no  hurry. "      But   though   her  mother   left, 
uncontraditced  it  was  her  opinion,  and  Lauucelot's  too,  that  the 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  293 

sooner  Pauline  and  Dr.  Maxwell  were  married  the  better  it  would  be  for 
them  both.  All  Pauline's  interests  were  at  Bridge  House;  she  spent 
hours  there  daily  in  attendance  on  Brenda,  who  was  suffering  much  at 
the  time  of  her  mother's  death,  and  on  Charlotte,  whose  strength  had 
suddenly  broken  down.  No  one  could  grudge  Pauline  those  hours  of 
ministry  to  the  two  afflicted  women,  or  doubt  her  right  to  share  her 
lover's  burdens,  but  the  strain  of  the  two  lives  was  telling  on  her  spirits 
— she  could  no  longer  enter  into  Launcelot's  jokes,  or  enjoy  Sybil's 
chatter.  The  endless  talk  about  balls,  and  art,  and  the  great  busy  world 
outside  bewildered  her  after  months  spent  in  sick-rooms.  "  I  think  I 
have  grown  stupid,"  she  said  once,  almost  ready  to  burst  into  tears  at 
some  teasing  remark  from  Sybil,  and  it  was  then  that  Launcelot  ex- 
pressed his  opinion  that  it  was  Maxwell's  duty  to  settle  things  at  once. 
"For  you  see,  Madella,"  he  said,  very  sensibly,  "how  half-hearted 
poor  old  Paul  is  about  things.  Her  spirits  are  worn,  and  Sybil's  nonsense 
tries  her.  Even  Jack's  talk  seems  too  much,  that  is  why  I  take  him 
away.  He  has  such  a  big,  jovial  voice  and  such  a  great  laugh,  but  one 
can't  damp  the  poor  fellow." 

"  No,  indeed;  it  does  one  good  to  see  him  so  happy.  He  is  so  per- 
fectly happy,  and  so  is  Dorothea."  And  Launcelot  was  quite  ready  to 
indorse  this  remark. 

But  he  saw  very  little  of  Dorothea  except  during  the  evenings,  and 
even  then  Jack  monopolized  her.  Not  that  there  was  an  atom  of  jeal- 
ousy in  Jack's  nature,  but  he  was  so  wrapped  up  in  his  girl,  so  utterly 
and  absolutely  devoted  to  her,  that  he  seemed  unconscious  how  often  he 
claimed  her  attention,  and  how  impossible  it  was  for  her  to  attend  to 
any  one  else. 

After  that  first  morning  Launcelot  had  never  exchanged  a  word  alone 
with  Dorothea,  until  one  evening  when  he  accompanied  her  and  Sybil 
to  a  dance  at  Mrs.  Geoffrey's  house. 

Dorothea,  who  had  never  seen  him  dance,  looked  nal'vely  surprised 
when  he  asked  her  for  the  first  waltz.  "  That  is,  if  you  do  not  think 
me  too  old  for  dancing  purposes,"  he  added. 

"  Old!"  she  returned,  indignantly;  "  why  will  you  speak  so  of  your- 
self, Mr.  Lance?  It  makes  me  feel  vexed  to  hear  you."  But  she  could 
not  quite  conceal  her  delight  and  astonishment  at  finding  her  hero  a  de- 
lightful partner. 

"  Oh,  that  was  lovely,"  she  exclaimed,  when  the  waltz  was  finished. 
"  Mr.  Lance,  I  think  no  one  dances  as  well  as  you  do;  your  step  is  per- 
fect." 

"  Why,"  he  said,  smiling  at  her  frank  compliment,  "  I  was  going  to 
say  the  same  of  you.  You  dance  exceedingly  well,  Dorothea,  and  I  am 
going  to  put  down  two  more  waltzes  on  your  card — that  is,  if  you  will 
allow  me  to  do  so?" 

Dorothea  gave  her  permission  sedately.  Two  dances!  he  might  have 
had  a  dozen  if  he  liked.  She  was  only  disappointed  that  he  showed  no 
intention  of  monopolizing  her.  What  was  Mr.  Trumpeton  or  those 
stupid  young  officers  compared  to  Mr.  Lance?  No,  he  was  not  tall,  and 
perhaps  people  would  not  call  him  handsome,  ,but  there  was  something 
so  distinguished  about  him,  such  an  air  of  mingled  ease  and  dignity. 
Just  then  Launcelot  looked  round  as  though  aware  of  the  girl's  innocent 
scrutiny  and  gave  her  one  of  his  bright,  affectionate  smiles,  but  Doro- 
thea colored  and  turned  shyly  away.  Every  now  and  then  this  slight 
veil  of  shyness  or  reserve  hindered  their  brief  intercourse;  she  would  be 
talking  frankly  to  him  in  her  old  way,  looking  up  in  his  face  and  au- 


294  ONLY    THE    GOY 

swering  his  little  jokes;  and  all  at  once  the,  words  would  :-eem  to  fuller 
on  her  lips,  and  she  would  draw  away  from  him  with  ;in  air  of  di: 
and  when  Launcelot  tried  to  break  through  this  sudden  reserve  he  : 
himself  confronted  by  a  gentle  firmness  that  seemed  unassailable. 

*'  Why  have  you  grown  shy  with  me,  Dorothea?"  he  when 

lie  liad  been  greatly  struck  by  this  manner,  at  once  so  gentle  and 
pelling.  *'  The  child  Doaeie  was  never  shy  with  me,  that  is  win- 
that  she  is  gone  and  we  have  a  new  Dorothea  in  her  place." 

"  Oil,  Mr.  Lance,"  she  said,  lightly,  but  she  did  not  look  at  him,  "  1 
thought '  the  old  order  changes;'  is  not  that  what  you  said?    OIK 
not  kv :-cp  one's  childish  ways  forever." 

"  Oh,  no,"  returned  Launcelot,  bent  on  teasing  her,  "  I  do  not  expect 
to  find  two  little  hands  clasping  my  arm  every  time  1  take  a  turn  in  the 
shrubberies;  and  when  I  come  home  after  an  hour's  absence,  of  c 
there  is  no  Dossie  waving  to  me  from  the  window — it  is  some  on 
who  gets  all  these  attentions  now!" 

"  Ah,  now,  you  are  teasing  me,"  she  answered,  but  her  cheek*  were 
burning;  "  you  want  me  to  believe  that  you  are  jealous  of  father,  but, 
you  will  not  get  me  to  believe  that.     Oh,  Mr.  Lance,"  her  tone  chang- 
ing into  earnestness,  "  is  not  father  happy?    I  think  he  has  never 
so  happy  all  his  life  long,  and  yet  we  can  not  find  the  cottage." 

"  I  shall  have  to  find  it  for  you,"  returned  Launcelot,  composedly, 
and  somehow  a  little  pang  went  through  Dorothea's  heart.  What  if  he 
should  keep  his  word,  and  this  clear  delightful  time  at  the  Wii 
should  come  to  an  endl  In  spite  of  her  love  for  her  father  it  saddened  her 
to  think  of  leaving  that  beautiful  home,  the  only  one  she  had  ever  known. 
More  than  this  Dorothea  did  not  venture  to  own,  even  to  herself;  there 
were  hidden  depths,  closed  even  to  her  hidden  consciousness,  into  which 
she  had  no  desire  to  look.  She  only  knew  that  the  idea  of  separating 
her  daily  life  from  Launcelot's  was  exquisitely  painful,  so  painful  that 
ghe  had  put  away  the  thought  entirely. 

Launcelot  was  a  little  amused  at  Dorothea's  shy  moods,  but  now  and 
then  he  would  feel  piqued  and  perhaps  hurt  by  the  girl's  reserve.  ]>ut 
he  was  very  much  interested  in  her;  in  many  wrays  she  suited  his  fastid- 
ious taste.  He  admired  her  particularly  this  evening,  and  though  he 
showed  no  wish  to  monopolize  her  he  watched  her  a  good  deal,  and  011 
his  return  told  his  step-mother  that  her  behavior  had  been  perfect. 

"I  was  very  much  pleased  with  them  both,"  he  said,  quietly. 
"  Sybil  was  evidently  much  admired,  but  I  like  Dorothea's  manner 
She  is  ver}'  gentle,  and  yet  she  is  piquant;  she  can  say  things  worth 
hearing,  and  yet  she  is  unconscious  of  her  cleverness.  She  has  an  inno- 
cent way  witL  her  that  I  like;  Trumpeton  seemed  to  like  it  too.  1 
fancy,  from  whi:t  Hilda  says,  that  he  is  hard  hit." 

"  Do  you  really  think  so,  Launce?  It  would  be  a  grand  match  for 
Dorothea!  She  would  be  the  Hon.  Mrs.  Trumpetou,  and  have  her 
house  in  town,  and  such  a  pretty  place  in  Kent!" 

"  Pshaw!"  returned  Launcelot,  contemptuously,  for  somehow   the 
idea  did  not  please  him  at  all.     "Fancy  Dorothea  marrying  that  old 
young  man,  with  his  bald  head  and  lisping  voice!  T  think  better  things 
of  the.  girl,"  and  he  turned  on  his  heel  and  could  not  be  induced  i 
another  word  about  the  ball. 

Doiotlie.i   looked  a  little  tin-d  when  she  bade  her  fa; 

had  waited  up  as  usual,  and  was  .smoking  in  the  porch  when,  thej 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.    ,  295 

"You  look  pale,  my  pet,"  lie  said,  anxiously.  "  Have  you  danced 
too  much?" 

"Danced  too  much!"  with  a  merry  little  laugh.  "Father  dear, 
what  an  idea!  I  am  never  .tired  with  dancing;  the  only  difficulty  is  to 
stop— but  all  the  same  I  am  very  sleepy,"  and  then  she  ran  off  hum- 
ming a  little  air. 

Launcelot  marveled  at  this  sudden  fit  of  gayety,  for  she  had  been  ex- 
tremely quiet  all  the  way  home. 

During  their  last  dance  together  they  had  been  chatting  cheerfully, 
when  all  at  once  he  had  said — 

"  Oh,  by  the  bye,  Dorothea,  I  have  quite  forgotten  to  tell  you  that  I 
think  I  haVe  found  the  cottage.  I  met  with  it  quite  by  accident;  it  was 
not  even  advertised,  and  no  one  knew  that  it  was  to  be  let.  Mi.-s 
Thorpe  told  me  about  it.  The  people  want  to  let  it  at  once  for  six 
months  or  even  longer.  The  wife  has  to  go  abroad  for  her  health  to 
some  German  watering-place  or  other,  and  it  is  very  well  furnished,  and 
is  altogether  a  nice  little  place;  it  is  in  the  Burnley  Road,  turning  off 
from  the  common,  about  half  a  mile  from  the  Witchens,  so  you  see  it 
would  be  quite  close." 

"  I  am  glad  of  that,"  she  answered,  quietly,  looking  down  at  her 
flowers.  "  And  the  people  wish  to  let  it  at  once?" 

"  Yes,  they  would  go  out  next  week.  Shall  we  have  a  look  at  it  to- 
morrow  before  you  talk  to  your  father?  It  would  be  such  a  surprise  to 
him  if  we  were  to  come  home  and  tell  him  it  is  all  settled." 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  returned,  quickly;  "father  is  tired  of  looking  at 
houses,  and  he  said  yestreday  that  I  might  settle  on  any  one  I  liked.  I 
think  all  these  little  details  trouble  him.  It  was  so  in  the  old  days  when 
we  were  looking  for  lodgings,  but  I  was  too  young  to  help  him  then; 
but  he  shall  not  have  anything  to  worry  him  now  if  I  can  prevent  it." 

Launcelot  thought  of  this  little  speech  as  he  watched  Dorothea  with 
her  father — the  slim,  girlish  creature,  and  Jack  with  his  great  muscular 
frame  and  magnificent  physique.  Dorothea  always  looked  so  young 
and  childish  beside  Jack;  his  bigness  seemed  to  swallow  her  up,  and 
yet  already  she  guided  him. 

Launcelot  thought  a. good  deal  about  Dorothea  that  night.  How 
cheerfully  she  had  acquiesced  in  his  little  plan!  She  had  not  uttered  a 
dissenting  word  or  entreated  an  hour's  delay;  she  put  aside  her  own- 
wishes  in  a  moment.  It  was  this  unselfishness  that  charmed  him.  He 
was  beginning  to  understand  her  thoroughly,  and  he  knevr  instinctively 
that  she  would  never  disappoint  him. 

"  She  is  a  dear  little  thing,"  he  thought;  "  I  don't  half  like  the  idea 
of  parting  with  her.  Confound  Jack's  obstinacy!  Why  can't  he  make 
up  his  mind  to  stay  here?  I  wish  I  could  hit  on  some  plan  for  keeping 
them."  Nevertheless,  no  such  plan  had  occurred  to  Launcelot  when  he 
and  Dorothea  started  for  Burnley  Road  the  following  afternoon. 

He  had  been  at  Bridge  House  that  morning  with  Pauline,  and  had 
joined  the  Maxwells  in  Riversleigli  Church.  The  quiet  service  had 
seemed  very  solemn  and  appropriate  to  them  both,  but  even  Launcelot 
felt  himself  moved  when  the  trembling,  pale-faced  bride  clung  to  the 
brother  who  had  taken  the  father's  place  to  them  both. 

"  Oh,  Hedley,"  she  whispered,  "  if  only  dear  mamma  could  be  here 
to  kiss  and  bless  me!" 

"  She  knows  all  about  it,  my  dear,"  was  his  soothing  answer.  "  You 
must  think  of  your  husband  to-day,  Prissy;  look,  Druminond  is  waiting 
for  you.  We  shall  see  you  again  by  and  by;"  and  poor  Prissy,  with 


ONLY    THE    r.OVKKXESS. 

swollen  eyes  and  the  tears  still  running  down  her  checks,  suffered  her 
self  to  be  put  in  the  carriage. 

"  Oh,  Charlotte,"  she  exclaimed,  as  her  sister  gave  her  a  purling  kiss, 
"lean  never  thank  lledley  for  all  he  has  done.  Ask  Pauline  to  1m 
good  to  him.  He  looks  BO  ill  and  so  miserable!"  lint  3Iajor  Dnini- 
mond  made  a  sign  to  Charlotte  to  say  uo  more,  and  put  his  arm  round 
his  poor  little  wife. 

"  I  will  bring  you  to  see  them  all  again,  rny  darling.  This  is  not 
good-bye.  Don't  cry  any  more;"  and  after  a  time  Prissy  allowed  her- 
self to  be  consoled. 

Launcelot  went  back  to  the  Witchens  after  this,  and  Pauline  went  up 
to  Brenda,  who  between  nervous  exhaustion  and  sisterly  sympathy  was 
suffering  martyrdom.  Chailotte  was  too  busy  to  give  the  quirt,  un- 
divided attention  that  she  needed,  and  Pauline  found  herself  a  prisoner 
for  the  remainder  of  the  day. 

Brenda  was  so  seldom  nervous  and  exacting  that  Pauline  felt  that  sin; 
must  be  soothed  at  all  costs,  so  she  read  to  her  and  talked  to  her  until 
her  tl uttered  spirits  had  regained  their  usual  tone.  "  Oh,  how  selfMi  I 
have  been!"  she  said  at  last.  "  You  have  been  sitting  in  this  darkened 
room  for  hours  listening  to  my  grumbling  fancies  until  you  are  quite 
worn  out.  Do  go  down  now,  dear  Pauline.  I  am  so  much  better  that 
I  know  I  shall  soon  sleep.  Why  can't  one  fight  against  these  moods? 
But  no,  the  horrible  depression  will  master  one.  Hedley  says  it  is  all 
because  one's  nerves  are  unstrung,  but  I  can  never  get  it  out  of  my  mind 
that  it  must  be  from  some  fault  of  iny  own." 

Pauline  tried  to  repress  a  little  sigh  of  weariness,  but  she  took  up  a 
book  she  had  just  laid  down.  "  Have  you  forgotten  the  passage  your 
dear  mother  has  marked?  I  was  reading  it  to  her  the  very  day  before 
she  died;  she  made  me  read  it  over  and  over  again,  and  then  she  said, 
'  Oh,  I  must  mark  that;  it  will  just  suit  Brenda  when  she  has  one  of 
her  low  fits. '  ' 

*'  Darling  mother!  That  was  so  like  her.  Yes,  read  it,  Paul.  "When 
my  head  is  like  this  I  do  not  recall  things  easily;  it  is  from  Boussuct,  is 
it  not?" 

"Yes.  He  is  speaking  of  depression;  he  says,  '  It  is  not  true  that 
sadness  can  not  come  direct  from  God— witness  that  of  the  holy  human 
soul  of  our  Lord. 

"  '  The  heaviness  in  which  the  Evangelist  tells  us  that  it  was  plunged 
was  in  no  way  different  from  what  we  call  sadness;  it  became  tl. 
sion — very  anguish;  and  was  He  not  agitated  when  He  exclaimed,  "  My 
soul  is  troubled;  what  shall  I  say?  Father,  save  me  from  tihis  hour?" 
Was  there  not  a  certain  anxious  restlessness  in  the  way  He  went  three 
times  to  His  disciples  and  returned  three  times  to  His  Father? 

'  '  All  this  teaches  us  that  our  Head  bore  in  Himself  all  the  weakness 
which  His  members  were  to  bear,  so  far  as  the  greatness  of  His  perfec- 
tions admitted. 

"  '  It  is  not  well  to  torment  ourselves  with  investigating  whether  our 
sadness  is  the  result  of  our  own  weakness  or  a  Divine  trial;  for  suppos- 
ing it  to  be  the  first,  which  is  the  safest  belief,  it  is  none  the  less  true 
that  God  can  use  it  to  lead  us  His  own  way,  as  much  as  what  > 
Immediately  from  Himself,  because  He  overrules  alike  our  weakne- 
our  evil   inclination,   everything   indeed,   even    to   our   sins,    till    they 
promote  our  salvation.'  ' 

"  All,  yes,  that  is'  beautiful,"  returned  Brenda,  witli  a  quid,  satisfied 
look  in  her  eyes,-  "  lay  the  book  beside  me,  Pauline  dear.  I  shall  always 


OtfLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  297 

feel  as  though  .nothcr  were  speaking  those  words.  I  know  she  used  to 
suffer  so  much  from  depression.  Hedley  said  it  was  physical  depression 
and  could  not  be  helped,  but  she  never  let  us  be  troubled  by  it.  She 
used  to  say  so  little  about  herself,  even  to  Hedley.  1  think  it  was  moth- 
er who  first  taught  me  to  be  brave,  and  try  to  bear  things  quietly.  '  We 
must  not . overburden  people's  sympathy,' she  would  say;  'sympathy 
is  capable  of  exhaustion/  Ah,  how  wise  she  was!" 

"  I  think  it  was  just  this  thnt  first  struck  me  in  you  all,"  returned 
Pauline,  thoughtfully.  "I  liked  the  quiet  way  you  all  took  things — 
most  people  make  such  a  fuss;  and  yet  with  all  your  troubles,  illness, 
and  poverty,  and  countless  anxieties,  there  was  never  any  grumbling. 
You  each  carried  your  own  burdens  so  cheerfully.  Yes,  indeed, 
Uremia,"  as  the  invalid  shook  her  head,  "  how  often  have  Launce  and 
I  talked  about  you  and  wondered  over  your  impatience!" 

"  I  have  given  you  a  specimen  of  my  patience  to-day,"  returned 
Brenda,  smiling.  "  But  I  could  not  help  myself;  Prissy  upset  me, 
showing  me  her  wedding-ring  and  sobbing  over  it,  and  then  I  missed 
mother  so,"  and  here  the  tears  would  come,  "  and  one  can't  jump  up 
and  shake  off  depression,  and  must  just  lie  and  bear  it.  Never  mind, 
you  have  done  me  good  and  the  horrid  restlessness  has  gone.  I  don't 
care  a  bit  for  the  worn,  tired  feeling  that  comes  afterward.  I  know  I 
shall  just  sleep  it  off.  Ah,  what  a  blessed  thing  sleep  is!  Kiss  me, 
dear,  and  now  go  down  to  Charlotte.  I  don't  mean  to  behave  in  this 
ungrateful  way  any  more." 

"  Oh,  Brenda,  who  can  help  loving  you?"  returned  Pauline,  affection- 
ately; and  indeed  her  heart  clung  in  sisterly  affection  to  this  patient, 
fine-hearted  creature,  who  seemed  to  Pauline  a  miracle  of  fortitude  and 
endurance. 

She  felt  herself  rebuked  as  she  went  down-stairs;  all  day  she  had  been 
conscious  of  a  heavy  weight  at  her  heart,  a  sort  of  impatient  lassitude 
fettered  her.  Pauline  would  have  mocked  at  the  idea  of  nerves,  and  yet 
in  reality  she  was  sadly  overstrained  and  in  need  of  comfort. 

Since  his  mother's  death  Dr.  Maxwell  and  she  had  hardly  exchanged 
a  word.  She  had  been  occupied  with  Brenda  and  Charlotte,  and  a  great 
deal  of  Charlotte's  business  had  devolved  upon  her,  but  Dr.  Maxwell 
had  kept  away  from  his  sister's  room,  and  when  he  and  Pauline  met  ho 
had  seemed  abstracted  and  melancholy. 

Once  during  the  marriage  service  she  had  seen  him  looking  at  her 
with  grave  attention,  but  he  had  looked  away  at  once  when  their  eyes 
met,  and  Pauline  had  felt  herself  a  little  chilled.  "  He  does  not  come 
to  me  for  comfort,"  she  said,  trying  to  fight  down  her  weary  feelings, 
' '  and  yet  if  I  lost  my  mother  no  one  but  Hedley  would  console  me. 
Perhaps  he  does  not  love  me  as  much  as  he  used  to  do,  or  he  would  try 
to  be  with  me  sometimes;"  but  the  next  moment  Pauline  repelled  these 
(iouhts;  they  were  unworthy  of  herself  and  Hedley.  Did  he  love  her 
less  because  he  was  mourning  his  mother  so  faithfully?  "  I  have  not 
trusted  him  for  six  years  to  doubt  him,  now,"  Pauline  said  to  herself  i< 
lier  old  sensible  way. 


298  ONLY    Till 


CHAPTER  XLV. 

THE  OLD  LOVE  AND  THE  NEW. 

The  treasures  of  the  deep  are  not  so  precious 
As  are  the  concealed  comforts  of  a  man 
Lock'd  up  in  woman's  love. 

MlDDLETOK. 

WHEN  Pauline  openefl  the  door  of  the  dining-room,  expecting  to  find 
Charlotte,  she  was  surprised  to  see  that  the  sole  occupant  of  the  room 
.  >r.  Maxwell,  sitting  at  his  writing-table.     Directly  he  saw  her  he 
pushed  aside  his  papers  and  came  toward  her. 

"  I  was  just  coming  in  search  of  you.  Please  don't  go  away,"  as 
Pauline  seemed  unwilling  to  disturb  him.  "  Were  you  looking  for 
Charlotte?  She  has  gone  across  to  the  Robertsons;  they  sent  for  her. 
What  have  }rou  been  doing  with  yourself  all  the  afternoon?" 

"  I  have  been  with  Brenda.  She  has  had  such  a  bad  day,  but  she  is 
better  now,  and  seems  inclined  to  sleep." 

"Oh,  the  bustle  and  leave-taking  have  been  too  much  for  her;  but 
Charlotte  ought  not  to  have  allowed  you  to  sacrifice  yourself  in  this 
way.  i  have  never  seen  you  look  so  tired."  And  as  the  tears  came  into 
Pauline's  eyes  at  his  kind  tone,  he  said,  gently,  "  Come  with  me  into 
the  garden,  dear;  the  air  will  refresh  you,  and  it  will  do  me  good  too." 
And  she  went  with  him  at  once. 

There  was  a  nice  old-fashioned  garden  behind  the  house,  and  though 
it  was  not  large  all  the  family  took  a  great  pride  and  pleasure  in  ii . 
Dr.  Maxwell  and  Charlotte  spent  all  their  leisure  time  trying  to  culti- 
vate a  few  flowers.     Dr.  Maxwell,  indeed,  was  no  mean  gardener,  and 
was  given  to  boast  of  his  roses. 

At  the  end  of  the  shady  lawn  there  was  a  seat  under  an  acacia,  and 
here  Dr.  Maxwell  led  Pauline,  and  as  she  sat  down  beside  her  he  said, 
quietly — 

"  I  think  the  time  has  come  for  us  to  have  a  little  talk  together.  You 
know  what  my  mother  wished,  Pauline?" 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  simply. 

"  She  was  always  thinking  about  us  and  planning  for  our  happiness. 
The  inevitable  delay  fretted  her.    Again  and  again  she  spoke  to  me,  and 
•d  that  I  would  lose  no  time  in  putting  you  in  her  place.     Mie 
.od  to  dread  any  further  delay,  especially  for  my  sake." 

"  I  know;  she  often  talked  to  me  too,"  returned  Pauline,  in  a  low 
voice. 

"  I  think  she  was  right.  What  do  you  say,  dear?  We  have  loved 
("u  li  other  for  six  years,  and  I  think  I  can  say  our  love  has  grown.  If 
i  eared  for  you  six  years  ago,  you  can  judge  what  I  feel  for  you  now." 

"  You  are  not  tired  of  me,  Hedley?" 

"  Tired,  my  darling!"  drawing  her  closer.     "  Do  we  grow  tired  of 
our  greatest  blessing?    Even  you  can  not  guess  what  you  h;. 
me  all  these  years!     You  have  been  our  good  angel,  Pauline.     Can  I 
that  you  have  been  like  a  daughter  to  my  mother,  and  the  i 
bo  Charlotte  and  Brenda'.'" 

lo  do  things  for  your  sake,  Kedley — it  made  me  happy." 

"  1  know  it,  love;  but  you  must  not  mistake  my  meaning  it'  I  a\o\v  to 
yo:j  now  that  our  position  tried  me  horribly — that  1  could  oltm  lia\  e 
found  it  iu  my  heart  to  beg  you  not  to  come— tkut  I  could  not  bear  it." 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  299 

"  Oh,  Hedley!"  in  a  troubled  tone. 

"  My  darling,  a  man  feels  so  differently  about  things.  Often  and 
often  I  have  stolen  up  to  the  drawing-room  door  when  you  were  reading 
to  Brenda  and  Aunt  Myra,  just  for  the  pleasure  of  hearing  your  voice; 
and  then  the  thought  that  I  must  not  cross  the  threshold,  that  a  sense  of 
honor  kept  me  away,  almost  drove  me  cra/.y!  Those  were  my  bud. 
moods,  when  I  made  every  one  round  me  uncomfortable.  But  there 
were  other  times  when  I  was  strong  and  reasonable,  and  then  it  com- 
forted me  to  know  you  were  waiting  for  me,  and  that  one  of  these  days 
we  should  be  together." 

"  Poor  Hedley! — but  you  must  not  think  that  I  was  always  happy. 
I  used  to  long  so  painfully  for  just  a  word  to  tell  me  that  you  still 
cared." 

"  As  though  I  could  change!"  he  returned,  with  a  glimmer  of  his  old 
smile.  "  No,  Pauline,  in  spile  of  our  bad  moods  we  never  really 
doubted  each  other.  Perhaps  I  have  seemed  cold  to  you  sometimes, 
and  you  may  have  thought  that  1  could  have  spoken  to  you  before. 
But  I  did  not  wish  to  speak  until  I  could  ask  you  to  fix  the  time  for  our 
marriage.  Will  you  write  to  your  mother,  or  shall  I  come  up  to-mor- 
row?"" 

"I  think  that  will  be  best.  But,  Hedley,  you  must  promise  not  to 
flurry  mother.  She  may  not  want  to  hurry  things,  and  indeed  there  is 
no  need,"  rather  shyly. 

"No  need,"  and  Dr.  Max  well  roused  in  earnest  at  this,  "and  we 
have  been  engaged  six  years  1  Oh,  that  reminds  me,"  his  tone  changing 
into  exquisite  tenderness;  "all  these  years  I  have  never  given  you  a 
lit,  and  you  have  worn  no  pledge  of  my  affection.  Pauline,  will 
you  let  me  put  this  ring  on  your  finger?  It  was  my  mother's  engage- 
ment-ring, and  she  wore  it  to  the  hour  of  her  death." 

But  Pauline  hesitated  as  she  looked  at  the  magnificent  half -hoop  of 
diamonds. 

"  Ought  not  Charlotte  to  have  it?"  she  whispered. 

"  No,  dear,  Charlotte  will  have  rings  enough.  There  are  all  Aunt 
Myra's.  And  I  wish  my  wife  to  wear  this  always."  Then  Pauline 
yielded,  but  as  Hedley  put  it  on  she  said,  wistfully — 

"  1  shall  love  to  wear  it,  but  it  makes  no  difference;  I  always  felt  I 
was  engaged  to  you,  though  I  had  no  ring." 

"  And  I  to  ybu,"  he  returned,  gently,  "  but  all  the  same  the  world 
will  recognize  our  position.  Now  will  you  tell  Mrs.  Chudleigh  that  I 
Avill  come  and  speak  to  her  to-morrow?  And,  Pauline,  I  will  only 
venture  to  ask  one  favor — that  our  wedding  may  be  quiet." 

"  I  will  be  married  in  my  traveling-dress,  like  Prissy,  if  you  wish,'* 
she  replied,  submissively. 

"  No,  dearest,  I  do  not  wish  that.  Your  mother  will  like  to  see  you 
in  bridal  white,  and  so  shall  I.  You  shall  not  be  deprived  of  your 
privileges,  Pauline,  but  I  think  a  gay  wedding  would  not  suit' either  of 
us." 

"  No,  indeed.  I  want  no  one  but  Geoffrey  and  Hilda,  and  perhapa 
Elsie  to  please  Bernard — indeed  you  need  not  fear,  Hedley,  mother  will 
do  everything  that  you  wish.  Bee  had  a  dreadfully  gay  wedding,  and 
I  said  then  that  nothing  would  induce  me  to  follow  her  example." 

"  I  know  I  am  safe  in  your  hands.  Now,  dear,  I  have  a  patient  to 
see  on  the  hill,  so  we  may  as  well  walk  together." 

And  as  Pauline  agreed  to  this  they  set  out  together. 

It  was  her  first  walk  with  Hedley,  and  Pauline  thoroughly  enjoyed  it 


300  ONLY    Tin:   nov 

Things  \vcro  made  plain  between  them,  and  she  no  longer  misundcr 
his  silent  gravity;  and  as  lledley  looked  at  her  bright  face  and  saw  the 
happy  look  in  the  brown  eyes,  he  thanked  God  that  he  had  won  her 
faithful  love. 

"  You  will  make  me  young  again,  dear,"  he  said,  as  they  parted  on 
the  common.  "  Charlotte  was  moaning  over  my  gray  hairs  vester 

"  1  am  qiritc  satisfied  with  you  as  you  are,"  she  returned,  com 
ly,  and  she  walked  away  happier,  while  lledley  stood  and  watched  lier. 
i  has  been  very  good  to  me,"  thought  Pauline,  as  she  looked  at  the 
sunset.     "  I  was  just  losing  faith  and  feeling  jaded  and  misorabli- 
then  lledley  spoke  to  me.     I  only  just  wanted  the  comfort  of  a  word. 
It  was  not  that  I  really  doubted  or  was  impatient,  but  I  so  long. 
him  to  speak.     Oh,  how  dear  he  was!  so  gentle  and  so  considerate,  and 
he  does  not  think  of  himself  at  all,  but  only  of  me — but  he  shall  have 
everything  as  he  wishes  it.     I  will  tell  mother  that  there  must  be  no 
fuss  and  no  unnecessary  delay;  she  will  try  to  please  us  both, 
Hcdley's  wishes  will  be  mine." 

"While  matters  were  being  thus  happily  arranged  between  the  lovers, 
Launcelot  had  kept  his  engagement  with  Dorothea. 

Jack  was  to  know  nothing  of  their  expedition.  At  the  last  moment 
Dorothea  had  tripped  into  the  school-room  in  her  walking-dress,  and  as 
Jack  looked  up  in  some  surprise  from  his  easel  she  said,  carelessly— 

"  I  am  going  out  with  Mr.  Lance,  father;  Le  wants  to  take  me  across 
the  common.  I  shall  not  be  very  long,  and  when  I  come  back  I  dare 
say  you  will  be  ready  for  your  walk,"  and  then  she  kissed  him  and 
ran  off. 

Launcelot  was  waiting  for  her  in  the  porch,  and  looked  at  her  attent- 
ively as  she  joined  him. 

"  You  look  very  nice,  Dorothea,"  he  said,  slowly;  "  that  is  a  pretty 
gown  you  have  put  on  in  honor  of  our  first  walk  together. " 

"  Our  first  walk,"  she  replied,  with  a  little  laugh;  "  how  often  have 
I  been  across  the  common  with  you,  Mr.  Lance— a  hundred  times  at 
least!" 

"  Ah,  that  was  Dossie,"  he  returned,  seriously.  •'  I  can  assure  you 
that  I  have  never  walked  with  Dorothea  before;"  but  she  made  no'tin- 
swer  to  this,  only  began  talking  about  the  cottage  in  a  quiet,  business- 
like way. 

They  soon  reached  Burnley  Road,  and  then  Launcelot  pointed  it  out, 
a  low,  old-fashioned  cottage,  with  a  bay-window  and  a  little  trellis-work 
porch,  standing  back  in  a  small  but  exceedingly  pleasant  garden,  with  u 
tiny  lawn,  and  a  graveled  path  planted  with  standard  rose-trees. 

"  It  is  only  a  small  place,  and  Jack  is  very  big,  but  I  think  it  will  hold 
you  both,"  he  remarked  as  they  went  up  to  the  door. 

"  Mrs.  Moore  was  out,"  the  servant  informed  them,  but  her  sister, 
Miss  Reynolds,  would  speak  to  them,  and  a  thin,  fussy-looking  woman 
with  sandy  hair  and  spectacles  made  her  appearance,  and  showed  them 
over  the  cottage,  talking  all  the  time  in  a  thin,  highly  pitched  voice  that 
was  vei  \  exasperating  to  Launcelot. 

It  W&8  certainly  a  nice  little  place;  the  drawing-room,  though  some- 
what low,  was  a  pretty  room,  :;nd  very  tastefully  furnished,  and  a 
door  led  into  a  small  conservatory.     The  dining-room  was  comfoi; 
and  a  smaL  third  room  wa^  lilted  up  as  a  study.      l"pstairs  there 
four  good  bedrooms  and  a  bath  room,  and  though  the  buck  garde); 
•mall,  it  seemed  to  take  Dorothea's  fancy,  und  she  pointed  out  an  arbor 


ONLY    THE    GOYERNESS.  301 

with  great  delight.    "  Father  will  smoke  his  pipe  there,"  she  whispered, 
and  Launcelot  nodded  assent. 

"  You  think  it  will  do?"  he  asked  aloud,  when  the  question  of  terms 
had  been  discussed. 

"  Oh,  yes;  it  is  just  the  thing,"  she  returned,  looking  about  her  with 
quiet  satisfaction.  "  I  think  we  may  settle  it,  Mr.  Lance;  it  will  be  such 
a  comfort,  too,  having  the  servants,  and  will  save  Aunt  Delia  the  trouble 
of  looking  out,  and  you  see  Miss  Reynolds  says  we  can  have  the  cottage 
"in  ten  days." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  replied  Miss  Reynolds,  "  my  sister  is  most  anxious  to  be 
off  as  soon  as  possible.  I  think  you  will  be  perfectly  satisfied  with  the 
Cottage.  Mr.  Moore  has  spent  a  great  deal  on  it.  It  is  just  the  place 
''or  ,-i  newly  married  couple,  and  I  am  quite  sure,"  with  a  winning  smile 
it  Dorothea,  "that  you  and  Mr.  Chudleigh  will  find  it  a  pleasant 
ibode." 

Launcelot  did  not  dare  look  at  Dorothea  as  Miss  Reynolds  made  this 
Unlucky  speech.  lie  was  afraid  he  should  burst  out  laughing  in  the 
spinster's  face,  but  Dorothea,  who  had  blushed  so  vividly  that  even  her 
Mttle  ears  were  pink,  drew  herself  up  with  much  dignity. 

"  I  think  my  father  will  like  the  cottage,"  she  said,  civilly.  "  Will 
you  settle  with  Miss  Reynolds,  Mr.  Lance?"  but  she  also  did  not  look  at 
Lim  as  she  spoke — but  Miss  Reynolds  was  unfortunately  rather  deaf. 

"  Already  settled.     I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Chudleigh,  I  had  no  idea 
that  this  young  lady  was  your  wife.     I  should  have  said — "  but  here 
Dorothea  fled  into  the  conservatory  and  left  Lauucelot  to  explain  mat- 
\vhich  he  did  somewhat  curtly,  drawing  down  voluminous  apolo- 
gies and  explanations  that  were  alike  tiresome. 

Dorothea,  hot  and  indignant,  thought  the  odious  woman  would  never 
have  finished,  but  Launcelot  put  in  his  word  at  last. 

"  Then  that  is  all  settled,  Miss  Reynolds,"  she  heard  him  say  at  last, 
in  an  unusually  loud  \oice,  "and  Mr.  Weston  and  his  daughter  can 
come  in  any  day  next  week.  Miss  Weston  will  write  to  Mrs.  Moore 
when  she  has  fixed  the  day.  Now,  Dorothea,  we  are  ready,  I  think," 
coining  in  search  of  her,  and  Dorothea,  who  was  twisting  a  bit  of 
geranium  in  her  fingers,  passed  Miss  Reynolds  with  a  haughty  little  nod. 
There  was  a  gleam  of  fun  in  Launcelot's  eyes  as  he  followed  her.  The 
mistake  had  amused  him  excessively,  but  he  could  see  Dorothea  was 
annoyed,  so  he  wisely  talked  about  Mr.  Moore's  improvements  and  the 
benefit  of  having  a  third  room  for  Jack's  use.  And  then  he  remarked 
that  it  was  quite  early,  and  they  might  as  well  sit  down  on  the  common 
and  enjoy  the  fine  air.  And  then  he  wondered  what  Pauline  was  doing 
at  Bridge  House,  and  if  she  and  Maxwell  had  come  to  terms  yet;  and 
though  Dorothea  answered  him  sedately,  he  could  see  that  she  had  by 
no  means  recovered  her  equanimity.  So  he  thought  he  would  have  it 
out  with  her  at  last. 

"  Do  you  know,"  he  said,  lightly,  "  that  I  was  very  much  flattered 
by  Miss  Reynolds's  speech?  It  was  evident  that  she  did  not  think  me 
old  at  all;  on  the  contrary,  she  regarded  me  in  the  light  of  a  smart  young 
bridegroom.  I  call  that  vastly  complimentary. "  But  this  remark  failed 
to  mollify  Dorothea. 

'*  Please  do  not  joke  about  such  things,  Mr.  Lance,"  she  said,  quick 
ly.  "I  do  not  like  this  sort  of  joke." 

"  Neither  do  I,"  he  returned,  a  little  abashed  at  her  grave  tone.  "  It 
seems  to  me  that  you  and  I  think  alike  on  most  things,  Dorothea,  but 
you  must  not  be  put  out  because  of  an  old  maid's  mistake.  1  only 


30.2  ONLY    THE 

that  it  had  Loon  the  truth,  my  dour,  mid  then  I  should  never  have  had 
to  part  with  you." 

Launcelot  had  nuidc  this  little  speech  out  of  pure  good-nature,  and  to 
put  Dorothea  at  .her  ease;  but,  when  he  turned  round  with  the  ;in 

-till  on  his  face,  he  was  appalled  at  the  effect  of  his  words— there 
\v:is  not  an  atom  of  color  in  the  girl's  face,  and  she  was  trembling 
head  to  foot,  and  her  eyes  were  full  of  tears. 

lie  had  been  joking,  and  she  had  taken  his  words  for  earnest — that 
was  his  first  thought,  but  the  next — why  should  it  not  be  true— what 
should  hindeY  him  from  making  it  the  truth? 

•  In  all  his  life  Launcelot  had  never  felt  such  a  sudden  impulse.     Years 
afterward  he  said  that  that  quick  flash  of  intelligence  must  hav« 
the  work  of  his  good  angel.   A  moment  before  he  had  been  joking,  an<j 
then  something  seemed  to  whisper  to  him,  "  Why  should  it  not  be  true\ 
Dorothea  is  yours— has  always  been  jTours:  why  not  take  the  hi-. 
Providence  has  given  }rou?"  went  on  the  same  inward  monitor. 

Launcelot  was  giddy  and  confused.     Some  hidden  power  seemed  to 
pub  jugate  his  will;  he  was  almost  as  pale  as  Dorothea,  and  his 
was  not  steady  when  he  spoke  again. 

"  Dorothea,"  he  said,  gently,^"  it  pains  me  to  see  you  look  like  that, 
and  to  see  you  turn  away  from  me  as  though  you  feared  me.  I  never 
thought  that  such  a  thing  could  be  possible — that  you  could  care  for  me 
in  that  way.  I  thought  I  was  too  old.  I  only  know  it  would  be  a  very 
happy  thing  for  me  if  you  could  love  me  well  enough  to  many  me." 

I  IP"  had  spoken  quietly  that  he  might  not  alarm  her,  and  yet  it  did  not 
seem  to  be  he  who  had  spoken,  but  as  the  last  word  passed  his  lips  he 
was  grieved  to  see  Dorothea  shrink  away,  and  cover  up  her  face  with 
her  hands.  And  he  could  scarcely  hear  Ler  voice,  it  was  so  broken  with 
sobs,  but  with  some  difficulty  he  understood  her  to  say  that  it  must  not 
be — that  she  was  so  young  and  childish,  and  that  he  was  far  too  good 
and  too  wise  for  her:  that  he  did  not  mean  it,  that  he  surely  could  not 
mean  it! 

"  Why  should  I  not  mean  it?"  he  returned,  boldly,  for  this  opposition 
fanned  the  sudden  flame,  and  made  things  clearer  and  more  po> 
"  Do  you  think  I  would  not  keep  you  with  me  always  if  I  could?— and 
there  is  no  other  way  but  this,  and  it  seems  to  me  a  good  way,  and 
somehow  you  have  always  belonged  to  me.  Please  don't  cry  so  bitterly, 
Dorothea.  I  want  to  make  you  as  happy  as  I  can,  but  I  must  know 
what  is  in  your  heart  for  me,  for  if  you  do  not  love  me  well  enough, 
there  is  nothing  more  that  I  can  say." 

"Oh,"  she  said,  simply,  "1  think  I  have  loved  you  alwa\ 
I/mce,  though  I  did  not  know  what  it  meant,  but  I  never— never  could 
have  oared  for  any  one  else!" 

"  That  is  all  I  want  to  know,"   he  returned,    taking    her    bund. 
"Then,  Dorothea,  it  is  settled  between  us,  that  one  day  you  are 
my  dear  little  wife?"  but  though  Launcelot  spoke  so  quietly,  and  Ihoro 
was  no  change  in  his  tone,  there  was  a  sense  of  contentment  and  mar- 
velous well-being  that  told  him  that  he  had  done  the  right  thing  f< 
own  happii 

Dorothea  made  no  audible  answer,  but  she  blushed,  and  left  her  hand 
in  Lauiicelot's;  but  the  next  moment  she  said,  shyly— 

"Oli,  Mr.  Lance,  there  is  father  coming  across  the  common,  and  he 
is  looking  for  us,  and  he  will  wonder  if  I  do  not  run  to  meet  him  a* 
usual."' 

"  Do  you  mind  going  by  yourself?"  h«  asked,  gently,  "  for  there  is 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  303 

the  cottage  that  you  hnve  to  loll  him  about,  and  he  must  not  be  told 

thing  at  once.     See  hero,  Dorothea,  I  will  leave  you  for  a  little, 

_ro  u\vay  and  compose  my  thoughts,  and  when  1  come,  back  I  will 

:  to  your  father;"  and  as  Dorothea  agreed  to  this,  Launcelot  dropped 

•or  hand,  and  quickly  walked  away  across  the  common,  while  Dorothea 

i  toward  Jack. 

"  Am  I  in  my  senses?"  thought  Launcelot  as  he  strode  on,  caring 

":tlc  which  path  he  took.     "  Is  it  possible  that  I  who  told  Madella  yes- 

>•  that  I  was  an  old  bachelor,  and  should  never  marry,  am  to-day 

imaged  man,  and  engaged  to  Dorothea — to  Dossie?"  and  here  he 

•d,  and  struck  at  some  bushes  he  passed  with  his  stick.     "  Will 

i  think  I  am  crazy  when  I  tell  her?" 

And  then  all  at  once  he  grew  sober,  and  stood  still,  leaning  his  arms 
a  fence  and  looking  down  at  a  pond  where  some  duck.,  were  swim- 
ming, for  there  suddenly  Hashed  across  his  memory  the  charming  face 
•  !'  lii.-s  Eli/abeth,  the  face  of  the  woman  whom  he  had  so  passionately 
loved.  Yes,  it  was  before  him  as  though  mirrored  in  the  water;  there 
were  the  gray  eyes  gleaming  with  fun,  the  frank  mouth— Joan,  lovely 
and  bewitching  as  ever — but  there  was  no  numb  miserable  pain  gnaw- 
ing at  his  heart  now  as  he  recalled  her  image,  only  a  sort  of  sadm 
he  thought  of  the  long  melancholy  years  that  were  past.  Thank  God, 
he  had  ceased  to  sutler,  Joan  wa"s  nothing  to  him  now  but  a  friend 
whom  he  loved  and  reverenced.  He  had  not  wronged  Dorothea  in  that; 
he  was  free  to  love  and  marry.  But  the  only  question  now  was  how  far 
his  impulsiveness  had  been  to  blame:  had  he  taken  advantage  of 
Dorothea's  youth  and  guilelessness?  True,  she  had  betrayed  herself  in 
her  childish  way,  but  would  it  not  have  been  wiser  to  wait  until  he  was 
sure  that  her  affection  was  returned?  There  had  been  no  wooing  on  his 
part,  not  one  word  of  love,  and  yet  they  were  engaged! 

"  I  think  I  must  have  been  possessed.  I  hardly  seemed  master  of  my 
own  words,"  he  thought,  "  but  she  looked  so  sweet  and  so  unhappy 
that  I  longed  to  comfort  her.  I  believe  it  was  nothing  but  a  mistake  at 
first.  I  was  just  joking  and  meant  nothing,  and  she  took  it  in  earnest; 
rind  yet  though  I  know  this,  though  I  do  not  pretend  to  be  in  love  with 
Dorothea,  I  have  no  wish  to  take  back  a  word.  I  am  quite  satisfied  and 
quite  happy;  and  this  is  what  puzzles  me,  that  I  am  not  a  bit  afraid  of 
the  future  either,  hers  and  mine,  though  what  Jack  will  say  to  me  I 
hardly  know — but  I  don't  seem  to  care  about  that  either." 

Launcelot  could  make  nothing  of  his  present  mood.  His  position 
amused  him.  In  his  secret  heart  he  was  proud  of  his  new  character  as 
Dorothea's  'fiancee.  In  a  dim  way,  for  he  could  grasp  nothing  clearly, 
he  felt  as  though  his  life  were  suddenly  enlarged;  a  new  interest  had 
come  into  it.  The  sense  of  solitude  that  had  so  long  harassed  him  was 
soothed  by  the  promise  of  future  companionship.  "  1  shall  not  be  lonely 
with  Dorothea,"  he  thought,  as  he  retraced  his  steps,  "  and  I  shall  have 
her  to  think  about  instead  of  my  stupid  self;"  and  then  his  eyes  bright- 
ened, and  he  felt  a  quiet  sensation  of  pleasure  stealing  over  him  as  he 
caught  sight  of  Dorothea  sitting  in  the  same  place  where  he  had  left 
her  talking  to  Jack,  and  he  knew  at  once  by  her  earnest  manner,  and 
the  look  on  Jack's  face,  that  she  had  not  waited  for  him  to  speak.  Most 
likely  Jack  had  seen  that  she  had  been  crying,  and  had  questioned  her 
too  closely,  and  she  had  not  been  able  to  satisfy  him  with  her  talk  about 
•Wage.  Very  probably  Jack  had  waxed  curious  and  rampant— and 
he  found  out  afterward  that  this  was  the  case. 
' '  Father  saw  I  had  been  crying  at  once,  and  he  was  in  such  a  way 


304  ONLY    TITE    GOVERNESS. 

thnt  I  was  obliged  to  tell  the  truth,"  Dorothea  said,  when  she  found 
her.-elf  alone  Avith  Launcelot.  "  I  did  not  want  to  tell  him,  but  I  could 
not  help  myself." 

"  I  stayed  away  too  long;  you  must  forgive  me,  Dorothea,"  he  an- 
swried,  looking  down  at  his  gentle  little  sweetheart  with  undisguised 
ahVction,  e<  but  1  was  thinking  over  things,  and  the  time  passed  so 
quickly." 

Jack  looked  very  gruff  and  red  when  Launcelot  joined  them.  "  Have 
you  finished  about  the  cottage?"  he  asked,  looking  at  Dorothea. 

"  Hang  the  cottage!"  replied  Jack,  sulkily;  then,  in  spite  of  the 
gravity  of  the  situation,  Launcelot  burst  out  laughing. 

"  Oh,  it  is  all  very  well  for  you  to  laugh,"  went  on  Jack,  gloomily. 
"  What's  the  cottage  to  me  when  you  have  robbed  me  of  Dossie?  Why, 
when  she  told  me  just  now?  you  might  have  knocked  me  over  with  a 
feather!  I  could  not  believe  she  was  very  serious.  '  Mr.  Lance  has 
asked  me  to  be  his  wife,  father. '  Why,  it  was  like  a  clap  of  thunder 
to  me!" 

"  Don't,  Jack;  please  don't  speak  in  that  tragical  voice,  as  though  I 
had  done  you  an  injury." 

"  So  you  have  injured  me,  confound  you!  Isn't  it  injury  to  rob  me 
of  my  little  girl?  Here  you  have  had  her  all  these  years,  and  just  when 
my  turn  has  come  you  want  to  stop  my  innings.  1  must  talk  to  Delia; 
Dossie  is  not  old  enough  to  be  married.  Pen  was  nineteen  the  day  we 
were  engaged.  Dossie  must  follow  her  mother's  example.  Pen  was 
only  a  slip  of  a  girl  when  she  married  me;  '  far  too  young,'  she  said 
afterward." 

"  All  right,  old  fellow;  we  can  settle  that  presently.  You  would 
have  no  objection  personally  to  me  as  Dorothea's  future  husband?" 

"  No  objection!  I  would  not  let  any  other  man  have  her,"  returned 
Jack,  still  wrathfully.  "  You  must  have  her  if  you  want  her.  Do  you 
think  1  could  refuse  you  anything?"  and  now  Jack's  eyes  were  dim. 
"  I  think  Dossie  has  always  belonged  to  you  more  than  to  me.  There, 
we  will  say  no  more  about  it,"  as  Launcelot  grasped  his  hand.  "  Dos- 
sie is  a  fortunate  girl,  I  know  that." 

"  But  there  is  a  great  deal  more  that  I  have  to  say,"  returned  Launce- 
lot, glancing  at  Dorothea  with  a  smile.  The  girl  looked  up  at  him  a 
little  sadly.  "Do  make  him  happy,  and  never  mind  me,"  her  wyes 
seemed  to  implore,  and  Launcelot  was  not  slow  to  take  the  hint, 

"  Don't  be  lugubrious,  Jack;  you  shall  have  time  to  get  used  to  the 
i'lca.      I  am  not  taking  Dorothea  away  from  you  now.      Nothing  is 
further  from  my  intention,  or  from  hers  either.     She  is  very  youn 
you  say;  we  will  wait  a  little.     That  is  your  meaning,  is  it  not,  dear? 
that  I  am  to  leave  you  with  him  for  a  time?" 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  shyly,  "  that  is  what  I  meant." 

"  Oh,  I  could'read  your  thoughts.  Well,  next  week  you  shall  go  to 
the  cottage.  Your  father  will  not  object  to  my  visits,  eh,  Jack?  I  are 
to  have  my  nights,  as  Dorothea's  fiancee?  Well,  that  will  satisfy  me  for 
a  lime;  we  need  not  talk  about  anything  else  just  now." 

"  What!"  exclaimed  Jack,  staring  at  him.  "  Do  you  mean  that  Dos- 
pie  and  I  are  really  going  to  have  the  cottage — that  you  don't  mean  to 
take  her  away  at  once?" 

"  or  course  not,"  returned  Dorothea,  but  she  blushed  beautifully. 
"  Father,  dear,  how  can  you  talk  so  to  Mr.  LanceV  I  am  not  going  to 
IK-  married  for  a  long  time.  I  am  going  to  take  care  of  you,  and  make 
you  happy,  and  Mr.  Lance  will  come  and  see  us.  How  could  yo\t 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  305 

think  I  could  leave  you  just  as  you  have  come  home  to  me?" — and  Jack 
allowed  himself  to  be  soothed. 

"  Dorothea  takes  matters  very  coolly,  upon  my  word,"  said  Launce- 
lot  to  himself.  "  'I  am  not  going  to  be  married  for  a  long  lime.' 
Humph!  there  are  two  people  to  be  considered.  I  shall  have  to  talk  to 
her  on  the  subject."  Nevertheless,  Launcelot  yielded  for  the  present 
with  a  good  grace,  and  Jack  recovered  his  good  humor.  After  all,  it 
was  only  an  engagement;  he  would  have  his  little  girl  to  himself  for  a 
long  time.  He  had  always  made  up  his  mind  that  Dossie  would  marry 
one  day,  and  he  would  rather  see  her  Launcelot's  wife  than  give  her  to 
any  other  man. 


CHAPTER  XLYI. 
LAUNCELOT'S  FIANCEE. 

I  love  her  with  a  love  as  still 
As  a  broad  river's  peaceful  might, 
Which,  by  high  tower  and  lowly  mill, 
Goes  wandering  at  its  own  will, 
And  yet  doth  ever  flow  aright. 

LOWELL. 

As  soon  as  they  arrived  at  the  Witchens  Dorothea  went  up  quietly  to 
her  room;  like  Launcelot,  she  felt  she  must  be  alone  for  a  time  to  look 
her  new  happiness  in  the  face,  and  to  realize  the  importance  of  the  step 
she  had  taken. 

In  spite  of  her  youth  and  inexperience,  and  the  simplicity  that  guided 
her  actions,  Dorothea  was  grave  by  nature  and  her  feelings  were  unusu- 
ally deep;  from  a  child  Launcelot  had  been  the  object  of  her  love  and 
reverence,  but  she  had  been  unconscious  of  the  real  nature  of  her  feel- 
ings. The  childish  worship  had  developed  gradually  into  the  woman's 
deep,  admiring  affection,  and  quiet  and  outwardly  culm  as  she  was,  she 
was  inwardly  overwhelmed  by  her  happiness.  Launcelot,  who  had  taken 
her  hand  for  a  moment  as  they  stood  in  the  hall,  felt  it  tremble  in  his, 
and  looking  at  her  he  saw  she  was  still  pale.  Most  likely  Jack's  talk 
had  unnerved  her. 

"Would  you  not  like  to  be  quiet  a  little?"  he  said,  interpreting  her 
feelings  rightly.  "  I  am  going  to  Madella,  but  there  is  no  reason  why 
you  should  not  retire  to  your  room;"  and  Dorothea  had  gratefully 
availed  herself  of  the  permission. 

But  as  she  closed  her  door  and  sat  down  by  the  open  window,  she 
told  herself  that  she  could  not  yet  realize  the  wonderful  thing  that  had 
happened  to  her.  It  seemed  incredible  to  her  humility  that  she  was 
to  be  Mr.  Lance's  wife,  that  the  child  Dossie  should  attain  to  such  an 
honor  as  that. 

"  What  could  he  see  in  me?"  thought  Dorothea,  quite  oblivious  of 
the  sweet  gifts  of  her  girlhood,  that  were  precious  in  the  eyes  of  a  man 
like  Launcelot.  "  I  am  not  even  pretty;  1  have  never  said  or  done  any 
thing  particularly  clever.  I  am  full  of  faults,  and  am  inexperienced 
and  childish,  and  he — he  is  everything  that  is  good  and  noble.  How  am 
I  ever  to  justify  his  choice  and  to  make  myself  worthy  of  him?  and  yet 
no  one  could  love  him  so  well,"  finished  Dorothea,  with  a  ilood"of 
womanly  pride  and  tenderness  that  promised  well  for  Launcelot's 
future. 

Launcelot,  in  his  hasty  impulse  and  in  the  almost  exaggerated  blind 
ness  of  Jiie  heart,  had  brought  things  to  a  swift  conclusion.    Dorothea 


ONLY    THE    0 OVER  NESS. 

had  fascinated  him;  she  had  stirred  his  heart  to  unusual  tend* 
he  felt  himself  justified  in  promising  a  life's  devotion.     If  he  had  had 
time  to  argue  out  the  matter  with  himself  in  black  and  white,  he  would 
have  said  most  truthfully  that,  though  he  did  not  feel  himself  capable 
of  another  strong  passion,  and  though  the  fever-dream  of  his  love  lor 
Joan  had  left  him  somewhat  arid  and  dry,  he  was  still  capable  of  warm, 
deep  attachment,  such  as  befitted  middle  age— a  calm,  tranquil  ailVoiinn 
which  would  be  none  the  less  satisfying  because  it  did  notcxpc; 
the  cold  and  hot  tits  of  youth. 

Lauucelot  had  method  in  his  madness;  he  had  not  thrown  himsell 
away  on  a  mere  dream,  a  chimera.  Neither  did  he  make  himself  the 
victim  of  a  hazardous  experiment;  he  had  acted  on  impulse,  but  he 
conscientiously  believed  that  he  had  done  the  right  thing. 

"  Dorothea  will  never  disappoint  me,"  had  been  his  inward  convic- 
tion. "  If  the  love  be  greater  on  her  side  she  will  never  know  it,"  had 
also  been  a  concluding  thought.  "  I  am  so  fond  of  her  now,  I  have 
watched  her  so  closely,  she  has  interested  me  so  thoroughly,  these  live 
weeks  that  1  know  my  love  will  grow;  every  day  I  find  new  beauties  in  her 
character,  every  day  she  surprises  me  by  some  little  trait  which  I  think 
charming.  It  is  true  I  never  thought  of  marrying  her  until  that  ridicu- 
lous spinster  put  it  into  my  head,  but  then  marrying  has  not  been  in  my 
thoughts  lately  —  all  the  same,  Dorothea  is  the  only  woman  I  could 
marry.  I  am  fastidious,  difficult  to  please,  but  a  fine  and  delicate  nat- 
ure like  Dorothea's  will  never  jar  upon  me.  I  know  her  to  be  unselfish; 
she  has  tact,  finesse,  discrimination.  I  shall  not  be  dull  in  her  society; 
when  I  am  down  or  hipped,  she  will  soothe  and  not  rasp  me.  I  am  so 
sure  of  all  this  that  if  it  were  not  for  Jack  I  would  marry  her  to-morrow 
sooner  than  let  her  leave  the  Witchens;  but  no,  that  would  not  suit 
Dorothea;  she  has  her  father  to  consider." 

.  Launcelot  was  becoming  more  satisfied  with  himself  and  his  fwncce 
every  minute,  but  then  his  natural  impulsiveness  was  always  capable  of 
these  swift  conclusions,  and  it  was  with  a  very  bright  face  that  he 
shortly  afterward  entered  the  morning-room,  interrupting  Pauline,  who 
was  just  in  the  midst  of  her  interesting  narration. 

"  Oh,  Launce,  where  have  you  been?"  observed  Mrs.  Chudleigh,  re- 
proachfully. "  Fen  wick  has  been  searching  the  house  for  you.  I 
wanted  you  to  hear  about  dear  Pauline;  she  and  Hedley  have  settled 
matters  so  nicely." 

"  I  am  delighted  to  hear  it,  Paul.  '  It  is  a  long  lane  that  has  no  turn' 
ing.'  You  may  tell  Maxwell  that.  Well,  you  both  deserve  to  be  hap- 
py;" and  then  he  added,  quietly,  "  You  are  setting  us  a  good  example, 
and  Dorothea  and  I  mean  to  follow  it.  We  are  going  to  make  a  match 
of  it,  Madella." 

It  would  be  impossible  to  describe  Mrs.  Chudleigh's  amazement  and 
rapture  when  Launcelot  said  this.  For  the  first  minute  she  believed  he 
was  joking,  though  it  had  never  been  his  habit  to  make  this  sort  of 
joke;  but  when  he  convinced  her  that  he  was  serious,  that  he  had  really 
proposed  to  Dorothea  and  been  accepted  by  her,  and  that  in  spite  of  hi.-) 
old  bachelor  proclivities  he  fully  intended  to  become  a  married  man  be- 
fore many  months  were  over,  no  words  seemed  adequate 
her  joy. 

"  Oh,  Laun-  .id,  tearfully,  "  I  only  wanted  this  to  make  me 

.,  it  is  my  one  wish  to  see  you  married.     You  an  old 
lor!  you!"  with  the  utmost  scorn  at  the  idea. 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  307 

"  You  think  I  shall  make  Dorothea  a  g^ml  hu.--ba:ulv"  ho  returned, 
eeriously. 

"  Yes,  indeed;  and  she  will  be  a  happy  woman;"  and  then  she  add- 
ed, "  but  it  is  your  choice  that  delights  me — Doiothea  is  perfect." 

"  Come  now,"  he  said,  with  a  very  bright  expression,  "  (his  is  very 
pleasant  hearing.  I  was  half  of  the  same  opinion  myself,  but  it  is 
agreeable  to  know  that  our  opinions  coincide;"  and  he  went  on  a  little 
mischievously,  for  he  knew  his  step- mother's  weak  point,  "  I  was  half 
afraid  that  you  might  tell  me  that  you  did  not  consider  Dorothea  pretty 
—not  a  fine' woman,  you  understand." 

"  No,  but  she  can  look  lovely  at  times,  and  she  is  always  charming. 
Do  JTOU  know,  Launce,"  with  a  shrewd  look,  "  that  the  idea  came  into 
my  head  that  night  on  your  return?  Don't  you  remember  Dorothea 
coining  into  the  room,  looking  such  a  darling  in  her  white  dress?  1 
saw  you  quite  start,  as  though  it  were  a  strange  young  lady,  and  not 
Dorothea  at  all.  And  you  did  not  kiss  her  as  usual,  though  you  had 
been  absent  eighteen  months,  and  you  had  always  treated  her  like 
Sybil,  and  I  said  to  myself  then,  '  Suppose  Launce  takes  a  faury  to  her, 
seeing  her  look  so  sweet  and  pretty!'  " 

"  Yes,  I  was  very  much  struck  with  her,"  he  answered,  slowly;  and 
then  he  said  to  himself,  "  No,  I  did  not  kiss  her.  She  would  not  have 
liked  it;  she  gave  me  her  hand  like  a  princess;  she  looked  very  dainty 
and  unapproachable,  and  all  her  kisses  were  for  Jack.  She*  has  not 
given  me  one  yet,"  with  a  sudden  remembrance  that  his  position  com- 
manded certain  privileges. 

"  I  think  she  will  suit  you  perfectly."  went  on  Mrs.  Chudleigli,  quite 
oblivious  of  her  daughter's  affairs;  and,  indeed,  Pauline,  with  the  un- 
selfishness that  belonged  to  her  nature,  had  at  once  withdrawn  into  the 
background.  "  You  are  not  easily  satisfied,  Launce,  or  you  would  not 
have  waited  for  a  wife  until  you  were  nearly  forty." 

"Don't  you  remember,  mother,"  broke  in  Pauline  at  this  point, 
"  how  Bee  once  said  that  Launcelot  was  so  fastidious  that  she  did  not 
know  how  he  would  ever  find  a  girl  to  suit  him,  and  that  h,e  had  better 
train  his  future  wife  from  a  child,  Launce  was  so  ridiculous  about  it?" 

"  You  see  the  plan  has  answered  excellently,"  returned  Launcelot, 
with  a  droll  look.  "Dorothea  is  not  an  orphan,  but  she  has  no 
mother,  and  she  was  a  mere  child  when  she  came  to  the  Witchens,  and 
of  course  I  have  inoculated  her  with  all  my  pet  theories." 

"  I  don't  believe  anything  of  the  kind,"  replied  Pauline,  with  her  old 
bluntness.  "  Dorothea  is  one  to  think  for  herself;  she  is  easily  guided 
through  her  affections,  but  she  holds  strong  opinions  and  is  slow  to 
yield  them;  she  will  listen  meekly  to  your  arguments,  Launce,  but  I  am 
not  so  sure  she  will  yield  a  blind  faith  in  everything." 

"But  where  is  the  dear  child?"  asked  Mrs.  Chudleigh  at  this  point; 
"  surely  you  will  bring  her  to  me?"  Then  Launcelot  promised  to  go  in 
search  of  her  presently,  and  then  he  plunged  into  a  discussion  about  the 
cottage,  and  Jack's  whim,  that  must  be  gratified  at  all  costs — "  for  do 

S)u  know,  Madella,"  he  observed  quite  seriously,  "  I  do  not  believe 
orothea  would  ever  have  promised  to  marry  me  if  I  had  not  given  in 
about  the  cottage." 

Mrs.  Chudleigh  scouted  Jack's  idea  as  absurd;  why  need  he  disturb 

them  when  they  were  all  so  comfortable,  and  when  every  one  knew  that 

Dorothea  could  not  bear  to  leave  the  Witchens?    But  Launcelot  did  not 

agree  in  this. 

"  He  could  wajt,"  he  said;  "  they  could  very  well  wait.    Dorothea 


308  ONLY    THE    COVER  NESS. 

was  very  young  to  be  the  mistress  of  a  house  like  the  Witchen.-;;  it 
would  be  better  for  her  1o  have  u  little  more  experience;"  and  then  he 
added,  tenderly,  "  1  do  not  half  like  the  idea  of  robbing  you  of  yOUI 
honors,  Madella,  you  have  been  our  liege  lady  so  long." 

"  Nonsense.  Lailnce!"  she  returued,  good-humoredly,  for  this  notion 
did  not  trouble  her  in  the  least.  "  I  shall  abdicate  most  willingly  for 
your  wife,  my  dear,  and  there  are  plenty  of  houses  to  bt  found  for  Sybil 
and  me." 

"Plenty  of  fiddlesticks!"  was  the  wrathful  answer.  "I  wonder 
what  Dorothea  would  say  if  she  heard  you?  Don't  you  know  us  better, 
MadellaV  You  and  I  will  never  part,  I  am  sure  of  that.  As  for  Sybil, 
if  I  know  anything  of  that  young  lady,  she  will  not  long  remain  at  1  lie 
"NVitehcns.  No,  we  shall  be  a  quartet,  Dorothea  and  myself  and  .hu-k 
and  you,  and  if  the  house  is  not  big  enough  to  hold  us  and  our  quar- 
rels " — but  here  his  sentence  remained  unfinished,  for  at  that  moment, 
Dorothea  came  quietly  into  the  room.  It  was  so  late,  and  they  had 
talked  so  long,  that  she  had  already  dressed  for  dinner,  and  perhaj 
had  wondered  a  little  that  no  one  had  come  in  search  of  her.  Launec- 
lot  met  her  at  once. 

"  My  dear  Dorothea,"  he  said,  "  you  will  have  thought  us  ver 
miss,  but  I  would  not  let  Madella  disturb  you,  for  I  knew  it  was  quiet 
that  you  wanted  and  not  talk;"  and  then  he  looked  at  her  very  earnest- 
ly, so  that  her  color  changed  a  little,  and  kissed  her  gravely  on  her  lips. 

"  No  one  shall  have  his  rights  before  I  have  mine,"  he  said,  quietly, 
and  then  he  took  her  to  his  step-mother. 

It  was  evident  that  Dorothea  was  very  much  moved,  but  she  took 
Mrs.  Chudleigh's  caresses  and  kind  words  with  her  usual  tranquillity. 

"  I  am  glad  you  and  Pauline  are  pleased,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice. 
"  I  did  not  dare  to  ask  myself  how  you  would  feel  about  this." 

"  And  your  father  is  pleased  too,  my  dear?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  father  is  pleased;  how  can  lie  help  it?"  with  a  shy  glance 
at  Launcelot;  "  but  he  is  too  much  afraid  of  losing  me  to  realize  his 
pleasure  just  now.  1  know  father's  way;  he  is  really  delighted,  but  he 
must  have  his  grumble  out  first." 

"  Yes,  that  is  so  like  Jack." 

"  Other  people  beside  Jack  can*  talk  nonsense,"  returned  Launcelot. 
"  What  do  you  think,  Dorothea?" — for  he  wanted  to  make  her  look  at 
him  again,  and  he  did  not  wish  her  to  be  shy  with  him — "  Madella  is 
talking  of  leaving  the  Witchens;  she  thinks  there  will  not  be  room  for 
her  aiid  Sybil  when  a  certain  young  lady  comes  here  as  mistress.  Half 
a  dozen  rooms  apiece  will  not  satisfy  her.  What  do  you  say,  Dorothea? 
this  is  for  you  to  decide." 

"  I  think  there  will  be  plenty  of  time  to  decide  that  presently,"  re- 
turned the  girl,  quietly;  but  he  could  not  get  her  to  look  at  him,  and 
then  she  took  Mrs.  Chudleigh's  hand  and  kissed  it.  "  I  think,  Aunt 
Delia,"  she  said,  "  that  if  you  go  away  there  will  be  no  mistress  at  all, 
that  there  will  be  no  young  person  to  come  as  interloper— it  is  my  idea 
that  she  will  refuse  to  come  under  such  circumstances." 

"  1  told  you  so,  Madella,"  returned  Launcelot,  in  a  contented  voice. 
"  We  have  been  engaged  just  three  hours — and  by  Jove,  there  is  thr 
gong,  and  none  of  us  are  ready  for  dinner— and  yet  Dorothea  and  1 
think  alike  on  every  subject!" 

Then  she  did  look  at  him.  "I  am  not  so  sure  about  that,  Mr 
Lance,'  >hc  .-aid,  quietly;  "  I  do  not  think  Pauline  would  agree  will/ 
you,"  and  there  they  all  dispersed  in  a  great  hurry 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  309 

Dorothea  bore  her  new  honors  very  meekly.  Perhaps  she  found  hei 
position  a  little  difficult  at  first.  Launcelot  manifested  a  decided  dis- 
position to  take  full  advantage  of  his  right  to  monopolize  her  as  much 
a.s  possible,  and  it  was  not  always  easy  to  satisfy  him  and  not  to  neglect 
her  father;  but  Jack,  who  had  been  accusing  himself  of  selfishness, 
showed  great  magnanimity,  and  as  Dorothea"  had  plenty  of  tact,  she 
soon  contrived  to  adjust  their  claims  with  tolerable  satisfaction  to  them 
both. 

She  seldom  walked  or  rode  alone  with  Launcelot,  but  neither  of  them 
minded  Jack's  company.  When  Launcelot  wanted  Dorothea  to  him- 
self, he  would  fetch  her  for  a  quiet  talk  in  the  studio  or  on  the  terrace. 
"  Yes,  go  with  Launce,"  Jack  would  say;  "  I  shall  do  very  well  alone." 

But  often  when  they  left  him  he  would  go  to  the  window  and  watch 
them  until  they  were  out  of  sight.  "  Bless  her  heart,  how  happy  she 
looks!"  he  would  murmur.  "  I  wish  Pen  could  see  her  little  girl  now! 
She  promises  to  be  as  sweet  a  woman  as  her  mother  was."  But  Jack 
in  his  loyalty  to  his  dead  wife  erred  a  little — Dorothea  was  likely  to  be- 
come a  sweeter  woman  than  her  mother.  Pen's  gentle,  tranquil  nature 
had  not  Dorothea's  mingled  strength  and  delicacy;  her  fine  intelligence 
had  been  lacking  to  Pen's  simplicity. 

If  Launcelot  was  not  a  very  ardent  lover,  certainly  Dorothea  found 
nothing  lacking  in  his  devotion.  His  tenderness  for  her  was  almost 
reverential.  The  knowledge  that  this  young  creature  had  placed  her- 
self and  her  life's  happiness  in  his  hands  invested  his  position  with  a 
sacred  sense  of  responsibility,  and  his  chief  pleasure  was  to  study  and 
gratify  her  wishes. 

Every  day  his  young  betrothed  made  herself  more  necessary  to  him. 
Her  freshness,  her  na'ivete,  a  certain  fund  .of  originality  inherent  in  her, 
delighted  and  refreshed  him.  There  was  nothing  crude  or  mawkish 
about  her  excessive  sensibility;  the  womanly  reserve  under  which  she 
veiled  her  deep  feelings  satisfied  his  fastidiousness.  He  was  demon- 
strative by  nature,  and  it  pleased  hirn  that  the  love-making  should  be 
on  his  side.  After  that  first  unconscious  self -betrayal,  Dorothea  spoke 
very  little  of  her  own  feelings. 

Two  or  three  days  after  their  engagement,  he  took  her  to  Spring 
Mead  to  receive  their  friends'  congratulations.  Mr.  Thorpe  was  out, 
but  Joan,  who  was  gathering  roses  in  the  front  garden,  dropped  her 
basket  and  went  forward  to  meet  them  with  outstretched  hands. 

"  Is  this  allegorical,  Mrs.  Thorpe?"  asked  Launcelot,  quaintly,  as  the 
crimson  and  creamy  roses  rolled  to  his  feet.  "  Dorothea,  our  friends 
are  prophesying  a  path  of  roses  for  us;  let  us  hope  there  will  be  few- 
thorns  to  prick  our  fingers." 

"  Oh,  nothing  is  too  good  for  you  both!"  exclaimed  Joan,  taking  the 
blushing  girl  in  her  arms.  "  Mr.  Chudleigh,  Ivan  has  been  writing  to 
you;  he  is  coming  to  the  Witchens  this  evening  to  congratulate  you 
both.  He  was  so  excited  when  he  read  your  letter!  Indeed,  I  never 
saw  Ivan  so  excited  about  anything." 

"  That  is  very  strange,  when  Dorothea  and  I  take  it  so  quietly,"  re- 
turned Launcelot;  but  Dorothea,  who  was  picking  up  the  roses,  took  no 
notice  of  this  speech,  neither  did  she  see  the  bright  understanding  look 
that  passed  between  him  and  Joan.  And  then  after  a  little  more  talk, 
and  when  Launcelot  had  made  her  promise  to  come  up  to  the  Witchens 
with  her  husband,  they  went  to  Rachel's  room. 

Miss  Thorpe  greeted  them  more  quietly,  but  Launcelot,  who  under- 
stood her,  saw  that  she  was  much  affected.  "  This  is  kind,  to  come  to 


olO  ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS. 

iid,  taking  both  their  hands;  "you  knew  how  1 
should  want  to  sec-  you." 

"  It  was  Dorothea  who  proposed  it,"  returned  Launcclot;  "I  v. 
to  Thorpe,  llllt  il  W:ls  sn(%  wno  said  you  would  be  lookim  1  >oro- 

thea  always  does  think  of  things.     I  expect  to  be  spared  every  kind  of 
trouble  in*  the  future,"  he  finished,  contentedly. 

"  Mi.-s  Rarhcl,  it  is  Mr.  Lance's  way  to  say  this  sort  of  thing,  but  he 
knows  th;,t  we  shall  not  believe  him." 

"  Do  you  think  it  right  of  Dorothea  to  call  me  Mr.  Lance?"  1. 
turned,  mischievously.     "  I  have  remonstrated  with  her  once  or  1 
but  it  is  of  no  use.     Dorothea  declares  that  Jie  does  not  know  me  under 
any  other  name,  but  I  tell  her  people  will  think  it  so  strange." 

"  Mr.  Lance  knows  that  I  must  have  time  to  get  used  to  any  other 
name,"  replied  Dorothea,  softly;  "  it  is  what  I  have  called  him 'from  a 
child." 

"  Yes,  of  course;  and  it  seems  to  you  a  sort  of  liberty  to  use 
other,"  returned  Rachel,  much  amused  at  this. 

"But  it  is  a  liberty  I  hope  she  will  soon  take,"  was  the  reply. 
"  What  is  the  use  of  having  a  young  woman,  if  the  young  woman  per- 
sists iii  keeping  one  at  a  distance?"  Then  Dorothea  flashed  a  look  at 
him,  and  her  dimple  came  in  play.  At  such  moments  she  looked  almost 
lovely. 

Rachel  lay  atod  watched  them,  but  she  said  very  little  until  Dorothea 
went  in  search  of  baby  Gwen*  and  then  she  said,  very  earnestly,  "  How 
she  has  grown!  I  must  tell  you,  Mr.  Chudleigh,  that  I  have  always 
hoped  for  this." 

"  Hoped  for  this — for  Dorothea,  do  you  mean?"  in  a  tone  of  surprise. 

"  Yes,  indeed;  when  I  saw  her  growing  up  and  developing  day  by 
day  into  such  a  fine  intelligent  creature,  I  said  to  myself,  '  This  is  the 
girl  to  suit  Mr.  Chudleigh,  if  he  could  only  bring  himself  to  think  so; 
bhe  will  make  him  just  the  wife  he  wants.'  " 

"  And  I  have  done  the  right  thing?" 

"  I  think  so,  and  Ivan  thinks  so,  and  we  know  something  about 
human  nature.  Dorothea  is  young,  but  her  character  is  wonderfully 
formed;  she  is  very  womanly,  and  she  loves  you  with  her  whole  heart." 

"  I  believe  you,"  he  returned,  in  a  moved  voice,  but  not  even  to  this 
tried  friend  did  he  find  it  easy  to  speak  of  his  betrothed— he  had  a  notion 
ilence  befitted  the  subject  best.  lie  was  very  happy,  very  satis- 
lied,  and  Dorothea  was  daily  growing  sweeter  to  him.  She  was  much 
to  him,  and  he  knew  that  she  would  be  more  as  time  went  on,  but  he 
did  not  care  to  talk  of  his  affection  to 'any  one  but  her;  and  though  it 
pleased  him  to  know  that  his  friends  approved  his  choice,  he  lik 
find  out  her  beauties  himself — that  shy,  soft  unfolding  of  herself  was 
her  chief  charm  in  his  eyes. 

Hi  was  astonished  and  dismayed  to  find  how  he  missed  her  wl 
fortnight  after  their  engagement,  Dorothea   and  her  father  left  the 
Wiichens  and  took  possession  of  the  cottage.     Dorothea,  with  all  her 
•nate  love  for  Launcelot,  was  far  more  contented  than  he  imdev 
the  circumstances;  the  knowledge  that  she  would  one  day  return  . 
mistress  satisfied  and  made  her  happy  in  the  present. 

As  for  Jack,  he  reveled  in  that  cottage;  at  last  he  had  his  littl- 
wholly  to  himself.     Jack  smoked  endless   pipes  and    really  pah 

picture,  while  Dorothea  busied  herself  in  her  simple  housekeeping 
work    beside   him.     After  all,   Launeelot  and    she   were   not 
ded.     Dorothea  and  her  father  dined  once  or  twice  a  week  i 


THE  GOVERNESS.  311 

Witchens,  and  no  day  passed  without  a  risit,  however  brief,  from 
Launcelot.  Dorothea  did  not  share  her  lover's  restlessness,  neverthe- 
less, it  gave  her  an  exquisite  sensation  of  pleasure  to  know  that  her  pres- 
ence was  wanting  to  his  happiness.  Launcelot  complained  that  tha 
drawing-room  looked  empty  in  the  evening,  and  that  he  could  not  always 
leave  his  step- mother  and  come  down  to  the  cottage.  And  there  was 
Pauline,  too,  preparing  for  her  marriage,  and  he  liked  to  be  with  her  as 
much  as  possible. 

"  This  sort  of  branch  establishment  is  a  failure,  after  all,"  he  grum- 
bled. "  I  don't  believe  you  care  for  it  yourself,  Dorothea;  it  is  only 
Jack  who  delights  in  these  poky  little  rooms.  Why  can't  you  come 
up  and  dine  to-night?  Maxwell  is  coming,  and  I  think  Thorpe  and  his 
wife,  and  we  shall  be  a  nice  little  party.  Do  come,  dear." 

"Not  to-night,"  she  answered,  seriously.  "Father  and  I  have 
planned  to  work  i-.i  the  garden,  and  we  have  been  twice  to  the  Witchens 
already  this  week.  No,  you  must  not  press  me,  for  I  always  like  to 
please  you,  and  to-night  I  must  stay  with  my  father  " — and  then  she 
dropped  her  voice — "  it  is  the  day  mother  died,  and  father  would  like 
>  be  quiet." 

"  Oh,  of  course,  in  that  case.  Why  did  you  not  tell  me  that  before, 
Dorothea?  Well,  he  shall  have  you  to  himself,  but  to-morrow  after- 
noon I  can  not  ride  with  you:  I  have  an  engagement  with  Maplcson." 

"  Then  it  can  not  be  helped,"  but  she  certainly  looked  disappointed. 
"  Never  mind,  father  and  I  will  have  a  long  country  ride,  and  perhaps  " 
• — a  little  wistfully — "  we  shall  see  you  in  the  evening." 

"  Oh,  yes;  I  will  come  across  for  an  hour  after  dinner,"  he  returned, 
looking  very  much  gratified,  for  she  did  not  often  ask  him  to  come,  and, 
indeed,  he  gave  her  little  occasion  for  such  a  request.  "  It  is  not  often 
that  you  let  me  see  that  I  am  wanted." 

"  Indeed,  I  always  want  you,"  she  returned,  earnestly,  "  but  I  think 
you  know  that,  Launcelot;"  for  she  had  learned  to  call  him  by  that 
name,  though  she  still  used  it  shyly.  And  she  was  right — Launcelot 
did  know  it. 


CHAPTER  XLYIL 

JEMMY  STOKES'S  ERRAND. 

If  woman  was  heaven's  last  new  gift,  the  ever-new  delight  of  man,  it  was  because 
•f  her  gentleness.    That  is  properly  the  "  strong  enforcement "  of  the  sex.—  WAKD. 

Half  unbelieving  doth  my  heart  remain 

Of  its  great  woe; 
I  waken,  and  a  dull,  * 


TRENCH. 

IT  was  on  a  lovely  August  morning  that  Pauline  was  married.  Mrs. 
Chudleigh  had  agreed  to  Dr.  Maxwell's  request,  and  the  wedding  was 
a  very  quiet  one.  Only  Bee  and  her  husband,  and  Geoffrey  and  his 
wife,  and  Bernard's  pretty  little  fiancee  Elsie,  and  Jack  Weston  and 
Dorothea,  were  the  invited  guests.  Bernard  and  Fred  were  of  course 
up  for  the  vacation.  A  cousin  of  Dr.  Maxwell  had  performed  the  cere- 
mony, and  another  cousin,  a  young  barrister,  had  acted  as  best  man. 

Mrs.  Chudleigh  had  been  perfectly  reasonable,  and  had  agreed  t.i 
everything,  but  on  one  point  she  had  remained  firm.  Pauline's  trous 
scan  must  be  equal  to  her  stater's;  and  though  the  bride-elect  remou 
ftrated  and  urged  very  sensibly  that  her  position  was  different  from 


ONLY     TIIK    (JOVKUNESS, 

1 '»<•('     ni.d  tli  ;t  she  was  going  to  many  a  poor  man,  Mrs.  Chudleigh  in 
sisird  on  having  her  own  way. 

"  Indeed,  mother  dear,"  pleaded  Pauline,  "you  and  Launrel' 
far  too  generous.     Of  course  I  wish  my  things  to  be  nice,  11« 
particular  about  dress,  ami  I  should  never  cure  to  be  shabby,     lint  we 
can  not  afVord  to  entertain  people,  so  what  can  I  want  with  all  tho.v-o 
pretty  d inner- dr< 

"Nonsense,  Pauline!"  returned  her  mother,  ingenuously;  "dear 
Iledley  is  so  exceedingly  clever  that  his  practice  increases  every  day. 
lie  says  himself  that  his  income  is  now  sufficient  for  moderate  comfort. 
So  you  will  not  be  so  poor." 

"  No;  but  we  shall  have  to  be  very  careful,"  replied  Pauline.  "  Be- 
sides, Hedley  has  always  been  quiet  in  his  tastes,  and  does  not  care  for 
gayety  under  any  circumstances." 

"  But  all  the  same  he  must  mix  in  society;  you  must  not  let  him  rust. 
And  then  you  will  be  here  a  good  deal.  You  see,  Pauline,"  went  on 
Mrs.  Chudleigh,  seriously,  "Bernard  really  means  to  settle  at  Christ- 
mas, and  I  don't  suppose  Launcelot  will  wait  beyond  the  spring.  "\Yhen 
Dorothea  comes  here  wre  shall  be  sure  to  have  a  good  deal  of  company. 
Lauucelot  likes  society,  and  he  is  very  hospitable;  and  I  think  Dorothea 
enjoys  it  too  in  her  quiet  way.  And  so  you  will  want  all  your  pretty 
dresses  for  the  Witchens." 

"  Very  well,  mother  dear;  you  shall  have  your  way.  I  know  Iledl'-y 
will  like  to  see  me  look  nice." 

"  There  is  only  one  thing  that  troubles  me,"  went  on  her  mother  after 
a  diort  interval,  "  but  1  know  it  can  not  be  helped,  and  you  and  lled- 
ley  will  make  the  best  of  it — I  suppose  poor  dear  Brenda  and  Charlotte 
must  always  live  at  Bridge  House.'1 

Pauline  looked  up  in  unfeigned  surprise. 

"  Why,  mother  darling,  you  talk  as  though  Hedley  and  I  should  find 
them  burdensome. ' ' 

"  Well,  my  dear,  most  newly  married  people  prefer  to  be  alon 
course  I  know  what  you  are  going  to  say — that  it  will  be  just  the  same 
with  Launce  and  Dorothea.     But  just  think  of  the  difference.     This 
house  is  so  big  that  we  shall  each  have  our  apartments;  we  shall 
meet  at  meals  or  .n  the  evening,  and  not  then  unless  we  wish  it.     Dow 
thea  is  to  have  a  charming  boudoir  made  for  her  out  of  the  inorning- 
ropm,  and  your  uncle  Jack  will  have  the  old  school-room.     I. 
thinks  the  library  that  the  boys  used  could  be  turned  into  a  pleasant  sit- 
ting-room for  Sybil  and  myself,  and  the  dining-room  and  drawing-room 
will  be  neutral  ground.     Besides,  Dorothea  will  have  her  hu.-'' 
studio;  he  means  to  have  a  corner  expressly  fitted  up  for  her  use.     J  !c 
and  I  have  planned  everything.     Your  uncle  Jack  will  have  quite  a 
suite  of  rooms  for  his  use.     I  think  you  and  Bee  will  hardly  know  the 
Witchens.     Launce  means  to  have  all  Dorothea's  rooms  refurnished — 
he  is  busy  now  planning  their  decorations:  I  assure  you  the  morning- 
room  win  be  lovely." 

"Yes:  but,  mother,  Launce  is  so  rich.  But  I  think  Iledley  and  / 
will  be  quite  as  happy,"  returned  Pauline,  with  a  bright  smile.  "  Hed- 
ley and  Charlotte  have  done  the  best  they  could  with  small  means,  and 
I  do  not  in  the  least  require  a  sitting-room  for  my  own  use.  I  slmll  see 
my  friends  in  the  drawing-room,  and  when  the  curtains  are  closed  it 
forms  two  rooms,  and  Brendu  will  always  remain  in  the  inner  one.  I 
could  not  trouble  her  with  all  my  callers;  and  if  I  want  a  quiet  corner 
there  is  Hedley  'a  study.  CLuilotte  has  made  it  so  comfortable;  there 


ONLY    THE    GOVEKXESS.  313 

is  a  special  chair  and  a  little  table  for  my  use.     So  you  see  I  need  not 
envy  Dorothea." 

"  I  don't  think  you  ever  envy  any  one,  my  darling,"  returned  he^ 
mother,  fondly. 

"No,  indeed,  I  would  not  be  so  wicked.  I  am  so  happy  at  the 
thought  of  spending  my  life  with  Hedley  that  I  can  think  or  nothing 
else;  and  as  for  Brenda,  I  love  her  far  too  much  to  regard  her  in  the 
light  of  a  burden." 

"  True,  dear,  and  Charlotte  will  be  her  nurse." 

"  Yes,  Charlotte  will  be  head-nurse,  but  I  mean  to  take  my  share.  I 
.shall  like  to  be  alone  with  Hedley  sometimes;  and  of  course  that  is  nat- 
ural, but  1  do  not  think  that  I  shall  ever  find  my  sisters  in  the  way." 
And  Pauline  proved  the  truth  of  these  words,  for  the  household  at 
Bridge  House  was  a  very  happy  one. 

Young  Mrs.  Maxwell  was  fully  contented  with  her  lot;  the  happiest 
woman  in  the  world,  she  often  called  herself.  She  and  Hedley  were 
not  without  their  cares.  What  human  lot  is  exempt  from  anxiety? 
Pauline  had  to  see  her  husband  work  hard,  and  for  some  years  only  a 
moderate  degree  of  success  rewarded  his  efforts.  He  had  plenty  of 
patients,  but  many  of  these  belonged  to  the  poorer  class,  and  Dr.  Max- 
well, who  was  one  of  the  most  benevolent  of  men,  often  worked  for 
love's  sake.  Hedley  did  not  become  a  rich  man  speedily.  Indeed,  at 
no  time  in  his  life  could  he  be  regarded  as  specially  wealthy;  and  Paul- 
ine, with  a  young  family  growing  up  round  her,  would  have  need  of 
a)l  her  prudent  foresighledness  and  unselfish  precaution.  But  it  might 
IK;  said  with  all  truth  that  the  heart  of  her  husband  safely  trusted  in 
her,  and  indeed  no  wife  was  ever  more  entirely  her  husband's  friend. 
"  Hedley  and  Pauline  always  think  alike,"  Charlotte  would  say.  "  If 
we  ask  one,  we  are  sure  of  knowing  the  other's  opinion.  No  two  peo- 
ple ever  were  more  similar.  I  never  noticed  this  before  they  were  mar- 
ried, but  Pauline  seems  to  have  grown  to  Hedley  somehow." 

"Pauline  is  a  pattern  wife,"  observed  Launcelot,  when  this  speech 
was  retailed  to  him;  "  she  always  sees  with  her  husband's  eyes,  and 
agrees  with  him  in  everything.  I  always  hold  her  up  as  an  example  to 
Dorothea.  I  am  grieved  to  tell  you,  Madella,  that  Dorothea  contra- 
dicted me  twice  yesterday;  indeed,  we  had  quite  an  animated  discus- 
sion!" 

"  My  dear  Launce,  Dorothea  is  not  your  wife  yet;  you  surely  do  not 
exact  a  blind  obedience,"  but  Launcelot's  eyes  twinkled. 

"Blind  obedience  does  not  belong  to  Dorothea's  nature,  somehow. 
Unhappily  for  me,  she  has  what  people  call  an  inquiring  mind;  she  has 
a  knack  of  putting  awkward  questions  that  one  finds  difficult  to  an- 
swer." 

"  Well,  well,  a  little  contradiction  is  good  for  all  of  us,"  returned  his 
step-mother,  tranquilly,  for  she  was  perfectly  satisfied  with  Dorothea's 
behavior  to  Launcelot,  "  and  you  know  you  are  dreadfully  spoiled, 
Launce." 

'  What  is  the  use  of  spending  all  that  money  on  a  room  where  I  am 
never  to  sit?' — those  were  her  words,  Madella.  '  It  is  more  fit  for  the 
queen  than  for  me;  I  never  saw  anything  more  lovely.  And  yet  I  am 
to  be  always  in  the  studio,  and  there  is  a  writing-table  and  a  work-tablf 
put  there  for  my  use,  and  father  say  she  shall  expect  to  see  me  some* 
times,  and  yet  no  one  else  must  use  that  room.'  " 

"  Well,  my  dear,  I  think  that  was  a  very  sensible  remark." 

"  Madella,"  observed  Launcelot,  in  an  exasperated  voice,  "  how  is 


814  ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS. 

there  10  bo  peace  in  the  house  if  you  take  my  wife's  part  against  me?  1 
have  noticr-d  before  that,  in  your  opinion,  Dorothea's  remarks  have 
alwa\  .sible.  Dorothea  has  already  :i  pretty  good  opinion  of 

if,   and  your  injudicious  partiality  does  not  tend  to  teach  her 
humility." 

"  What  was  your  answer  then,  Launce?"  asked  his  step-mother, 
smiling. 

"  Well,  of  course  I  was  very  firm  with  her.  Dorothea  requires  firm- 
ness. I  pointed  out  to  her  that  a  man  likes  to  enjoy  his  wi  f . 
sometimes,  and  that  I  had  never  cared  especially  for  solitude.  '  Oh,  'l 
know  that,'  she  said,  quickly,  '  and,  indeed,  I  do  not  wish  to  leave  you 
alone:'  but,  of  course,  I  would  not  allow  that  speech  to  mollify  me. 
Dorothea  knows  how  to  temper  her  bitterness  with  honey." 

"  Bitterness,  my  dear  Launce!  Dorothea  has  the  sweetest  disposition 
possible;1'  but  he  waived  this  remark  aside  loftily. 

"  '  The  morning-room  or  boudoir,  or  whatever  you  please  to  call  it,' 
I  returned,  '  is  for  young  Mrs.  Chudleigh's  use  when  she  has  sulked 
with  her  husband— a  very  probable  contingency— or  wishes  to  r< 
her  friends  privately.  Sybil,  who  had  not  yet  achieved  a  matrimonial 
prize,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  has  a  bad  habit  of  strumming  on  the  grand 
piano- forte,  and  I  have  noticed  that  tranquillity  is  essential  to  your  com- 
fort, so  you  will  allow  me  to  suggest'— but  I  will  spare  you  the  re- 
mainder of  my  speech,  though  I  am  grieved  to  say  Dorothea  said  I 
talked  a  great  deal  of  nonsense." 

"  Well,  so  you  do,  Launce,  but  it  is  nonsense  that  Dorothea  and  I 
love,  and,  of  course,  the  dear  child  was  full  of  gratitude  for  all  your 
thoughtfulness;  for  indeed  no  girl  could  be  more  studied,  and  it  is  only 
her  goodness  that  prevents  her  being  thoroughly  spoiled;"  but  Launce- 
lot  only  laughed  and  looked  a  little  guilty. 

Launcelot's  engagement  had  gone  on  smoothly  for  some  months;  Ber- 
nard had  had  his  way,  and  he  and  his  pretty  little  Elsie  had  been  mar- 
ried early  in  the  new  jnear;  the  lugubrious  Fred  had  taken  de;i 
orders  at  the  same  time,  and  had  betaken  himself  to  dingy  lodgings  at 
Bethnal  Green,  leaving  only  Sybil  to  represent  the  family.  Launcelot 
spent  the  winter  cheerfully,  working  at  a  new  picture  and  superintend- 
ing the  redecoration  of  the  rooms  intended  for  Dorothea's  use.  Many 
of  the  other  rooms  were  painted  and  refurnished,  and  at  one  time  the 
discomfort  of  workmen  obliged  Mrs.  Chudleigh  and  Sybil  to  migrate  to 
Hastings  for  a  few  weeks,  but  still  Jack  and  Dorothea  led  their  peace- 
ful lives  at  the  cottage,  and  Dorothea  had  made  no  preparations  for  her 
marriage. 

When  spring  came,  Mrs.  Chudleigh  felt  herself  a  little  puzzled  at  tho 
delay,  and  one  day  she  asked  Launcelot  when  he  and  Dorothea  meant 
to  be  married. 

Launcelot,  who  was  painting,  laid  down  his  palette  and  looked  his 
step- mother  calmly  in  the  face. 

"  Upon  my  word,  Madella,  I  don't  know.     I  was  only  thinkii 
.  that  Jack  had  had  his  innings;  it  is  my  turn  now.     He  ha 
her  to  himself  for  more  than  nine  months." 

"  You  take  it  very  coolly,  Launce." 

"  I  was  thinking  so  myself,"  he  returned,  with  perfect  equanimity: 
then.  her  perplexed  look,  he  continued  seriously,  "  The  delay 

i->   not   on   my  side.     I   would  have   married   Dorothea  most  willingly 

i  a  month  of  our  engagement,  but  she  could  not  be  brought  i 
t'j  my  vk-tt  of  the  subject,  and  in  a  weak  moment  I  promised  tliat  she 


ONLY    THE    GOVEKNESS.  315 

should  have  a  year's  freedom.  You  see,  Madella,  Dorothea  was  so  very 
young  and  Jack  was  not  willing  to  let  her  settle,  and  so  I  was  bound  to 
respect  their  wishes." 

"  Yes,  but  the  year  will  be  up  in  July." 

"  I  was  just  pointing  out  that  fact  to  Dorothea  this  morning.  I  told 
her  that  I  should  hold  her  strictly  to  her  bond,  and  I  must  confess  that 
she  heard  me  with  great  attention.  I  gave  her  to  understand  that 
August  was  my  favorite  month  abroad,  and  that  I  had  undertaken  to 
show  her  Switzerland,  but  she  would  not  let  me  go  on.  She  said  she 
must  speak  to  you  and  Jack,  cind  give  me  her  answer  to-morrow." 

"  Oh,  no  wonder  you  take  it  coolly!  Of  course,  things  are  as  good 
as  settled.  Dorothea  will  do  exactly  what  you  wish;  and,  Launcc,  I 
must  say  that  you  have  been  very  good  and  patient.  Few  young  men 
would  have  been  so  unselfish." 

"  I  think  Dorothea  will  have  a  model  husband,"  he  returned,  tran- 
quilly, throwing  back  his  head  to  look  at  his  picture.  "  I  hope  she  will 
appreciate  her  blessings  properly."  Then  Mrs.  Chudleigh  laughed, 
and  told  him  that  he  was  in  an  absurd  mood,  and  then  proposed  that 
she  should  walk  over  to  the  cottage  and  interview  Dorothea  on  the  im- 
portant subject. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  will  find  the  cottage  empty,"  he  replied.  "  Jack 
has  asked  Dorothea  to  ride  with  him.  I  have  to  drive  into  town  for  an 
hour,  so  I  could  not  accompany  them." 

"  Never  mind;  I  will  write  a  little  note  and  tell  them  to  come  up  to 
dinner,  and  then  we  can  arrange  things  comfortably." 

"  Ah,  that  is  a  good  idea,"  he  returned,  cheerfully;  "  they  have  not 
dined  here  for  a  week."  Then  Mrs.  Chudleigh  said  she  would  write 
the  note  at  once,  and  Launcelot  set  to  work  again  vigorously.  But 
there  was  a  bright  look  upon  his  face,  and  he  whistled  a  few  bars  in  his 
old  light-hearted  fashion  as  he  painted  in  a  fresh  fold  of  drapery,  and 
the  tune  was  the  old  Scotch  air  of  "  My  love  she's  but  a  lassie  vet,"  for 
it  pleased  him  to  know  that  he  would  soon  have  his  young  wife  to  sit 
beside  him.  "  I  think  1  have  been  tolerably  patient,"  he  said  to  him- 
self. ' '  I  was  a  little  restless  at  first  when  they  went  to  the  cottage,  and 
I  missed  Dorothea  very  badly,  but  things  have  gone  better  lately.  I 
think  we  understand  each  other  more  every  day.  She  is  not  so  shy 
with  me,  and— well,  I  dare  say  I  ana  fonder  of  Ler.  After  all,  I  am 
glad  I  gave  in  to  Jack's  whims.  She  is  so  grateful,  poor  little  darling, 
and  is  always  saying  that  she  must  make  it  up  to  me  in  the  future. ' ' 

Launcelot  was  making  light  of  his  own  unselfishness,  but  he  was. not 
a  young  man  now,  and  so  long  an  engagement  was  hardly  to  his  taste. 
He  would  have  liked  a  quick  courtship,  and  then  to  have  settled  down 
contentedly,  but  Jack  was  not  ready  to  part  with  his  little  girl,  and 
Dorothea,  as  usual,  effaced  her  own  wishes  for  his  sake.  "A  little 
waiting  will  not  hurt  us,  when  we  are  to  spend  our  lives  together,"  she 
once  said  to  Launcelot,  but  Launcelot  had  pointed  to  the  streaks  of  gray 
in  his  dark  hair. 

"  You  are  not  marrying  a  young  man,  my  dear,"  he  said,  a  little 
sadly.     "  I  think  in  spite  of  my  philosophy  I  should  be  glad  to  shorten 
my  probation,"  and  Dorothea  had  been  a  little  moved  by  this.     If  sh? 
had  thought  only  of  her  own  wish  she  would  gladly  have  been  his  wif: 
"  He  does  not  know  how  I  love  him!    I  never  seem  able  to  tell  him 
she  said  to  herself  as  he  left  her.     "  I  know  he  thinks  me  young,  ho  is 
always  telling  me  so,  but  I  have  never  been  too  young  to  understand 
Him. 


310  ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS. 

Launcelot  was  in  a  very  mercy  mood  at  luncheon  that  day,  and  ni 
Mrs.  Chudk'iirh  watched  him  drive  oil'  in  his  phueton,  she  told  herself 
that  things  wciv  jroin.ir  well  with  her  boy. 

"  1  have  not  seen  him  look  like  that  since  Joan  left  us,"  and  then  she 
sighed  at  the  remembranee  of  those  somber  days.  "  I  think  he  did  not 
i:vt  over  it  1'or  years."  she  said  to  lierself;  "  he  was  as  hardly  hit  ;i 
man  could  be, 'but  I  am  sure  Dorothea  makes  him  happy,  lie  was  not 
in  love  with  her  at  first,  but  I  am  convinced  that  he  is 'now.  I  could 
see  his  expression  as  he  talked  about  their  marriage.  I  think  the  delay 
has  fretted  him  a  little." 

Launcelot  drove  himself  into  town,  and  did  his  business,  and  then 
set  his  face  homeward,  with  a  pleased  consciousness  that  he  had  done 
his  work  well,  and  that  an  evening's  enjoyment  was  before  him. 

"  I  shall  leave  Madella  to  talk  to  Jack,'"'  he  said,  "  but  Dorothea  must 
come  with  ine  on  the  terrace.  It  will  be  a  lovely  evening,  and  I  must 
have  her  to  myself  for  a  little,  and  then  we  can  nnish  our  talk.  Halloo 
there!" — and  Launcelot,  who  had  been  lost  in  dreamy  anticipation, 
roused  himself,  and  pulled  up  his  mare  pretty  sharply  as  a  boy  ci '< 
the  road,  at  full  speed,  after  the  usual  heedless  habits  of  his  class. 

*'  Now  then,  you  young  rascal!"  he  called  out,  for  he  was  given  to 
bullying  these  young  offenders,  and  frightening  them  out  of  their  small 
wits.  "  Why,  it  is  Jemmy  Stokes— what  do  you  mean,  you  little  mon- 
key, by  running  in  front  of  Ruby  like  that?  Do  you  know  I  might 
have  driven  over  you,  and  serve  you  right  too?" 

"  Please,  Mr.  Chudleigh,  sir,  1  never  saw  Ruby  at  all.  I  was  just 
out  of  breath  with  running.  Orson  was  out  and— and  Mr.  Fenwick,  he 
says,  '  Run  for  Doctor  Higgenbotham,  Jem,  he  is  the  handiest  dodor, 
and  tell  him  to  come  up  sharp  ' — and  I  have  been,  and  he  is  driving  up 
the  hill,  but  la!  it  ain't  no  manner  of  use,  the  poor  young  lady  is  dead! 
I  seed  her  myself."  And  here  Jemmy  began  to  blubber,  and  drew  the 
sleeve  of  his  jacket  across  his  eyes. 

"  What  on  earth  do  you  mean,  child?  Has  there  been  an  accident? 
How  am  I  to  know  what  young  lady  you  are  talking  about?" 

"  Please,  sir,  it  is  Miss  Dorothea.  She  was  out  riding  with  her 
father" — and  then  he  stopped  aghast  at  the  result  of  his  words,  for 
Launcelot  had  sprung  out  of  the  phaeton,  and  was  standing  over  him, 
shaking  him  by  the  collar,  and  his  face  was  as  white  as  a  sheet,  Jem 
began  to  blubber  again. 

"  Leave  off  that  noise,  sir,  and  tell  me  what  you  mean,"  said  Launce- 
lot, sternly;  and  Jem,  in  spite  of  natural  obtuseness,  saw  he  was  in  no 
mood  to  be  trifled  with. 

"  Please,  sir,  I  was  in  the  front  court  along  with  mother,  and  I 
it  myself.     There  warn't  no  horses  at  all,  only  a  four-wheeler,  and  Mr. 
Weston  had  Miss  Dorothea  in  his  arms,  and  she  were  in  her  riding 
habit,  and  her  arms  were  dropped;  and  she  looked  awful,  and  mother 
gave  a  screech.    '  Why,  she  is  dead,  Jem!'  she  says;  and  then  Mr. 
wick  comes  out  and  gives  me  a  shove.     '  Go  to  Doctor  libuenl 
sharp,'  he  says — and  off  I  runs." 

Launcelot  did   not  answer,  but   he   mechanically  let  go   the 
jacket,  and  then,  jumping  into  the  phaelon.  gave  the  astonished  i: 
rut  with  his  whip  that  sent  her  up  the  hill  danein-  on  Hire- 
fact,  most  people  stopped  to  look  alter  them,  thinking   Ruby  had  nip 
y,  but  she  was  only  indulging  in  an  ill-tempered  gallop. 

Launcelot^  %*o  held  the  reins  in  his  iiuinb  hands  and  sat  up 


OKLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  31? 

stiffly,  looking  straight  before  him,  and  perfectly  oblivions  of  Ruby's 
antics,  though  the  groom  was  holding  on  behind. 

"  I  can  not  bear  this! — I  don't  see  that  I  have  any  right  to  bear  itV 
he  muttered  between  his  teeth.  "  There1  are  limits  to  a  man's  endur- 
ance. Dorothea— my  own  little  Dorothea— dead!"  xVnd  yet  he  was 
not  conscious  that  he  thought  anything  at  all;  only  a  veil  seemed  to  fall 
from  his  eyes,  and  the  great  rush  of  pain  and  heart-sickness,  and  the 
sense  of  overwhelming  misery,  told  him  what  Dorothea  was  to  him. 
He  need  no  longer  beat  about  the  bush  and  tell  himself  that  he  was  fond 
of  her,  when  the  dread  of  any  ill  befalling  her  had  driven  the  blood  to 
his  heart  and  there  was  that  look  cf  despair  on  his  face. 

"  I  don't  believe  it! — I  am  not  called  upon  lo  believe  it!"  he  said,  in 
the  same  dull,  inward  voice,  as  Ruby  made  a  final  rush  across  the  com- 
mon and  then  darted  in  at  the  open  gate  of  the  Witchens,  bringing  out 
Mrs.  Chudleigh  and  several  of  the  household  in  alarm,  lest  afresh  acci- 
dent had  occurred — and  at  the  same  moment  Jack's  cob  and  Dorothea's 
pretty  little  bay  rnare  were  led  into  the  stable-yard. 


CHAPTER  XLVIII. 

LATJNCELOT  FINDS  THAT  SKETCH. 

Whose  soft  voice 

Should  be  the  sweetest  music  to  his  ear, 
Awakening  all  the  chords  of  harmony; 

******** 
Whose  pure,  transparent  cheek  when  pressM  to  his 
Should  calm  the  fever  of  his  troubled  thoughts, 
And  win  his  spirit  to  those  fields  Elytsian, 
The  paradise  which  strong  affection  guards. 

BETHUNE. 

WHEN  Launcelot  threw  down  his  reins  and  jumped  from  the  phaeton 
he  staggered  slightly,  but  recovered  himself  in  a  moment.  The  faces 
iu  the  glass  porch  bewildered  him;  they  seemed  to  corroborate  Jemmy's 
vague  recital.  It  was  true  then,  he  told  himself— his  beautiful  little 
sweetheart  was  dead!  and  for  the  second  time  his  happiness  seemed 
doomed.  "  I  don't  feel  as  though  I  could  bear  this!"  he  said  again  to 
himself,  as  he  pushed  through  the  excited  little  group,  asking  no  ques- 
tions. Indeed,  he  could  not  have  spoken  at  that  moment  to  save  his 
life. 

Happily  Mrs.  Chudleigh  saw  his  expression,  and  grasped  the  truth. 

"  Oh,  my  dear  boy,"  she  exclaimed,  "  who  has  been  frightening 
you?  There  has  been  an  accident,  oh,  yes,  but  things  are  not  so  bad, 
after  all." 

"  She  is  not  dead  then?"  for  his  step-mother's  voice  gave  him  power 
to  speak.  She  would  not  have  looked  or  spoken  in  that  way  if  Jemmy 
Stokes  had  been  correct. 

"  Dead!"  in  a  shocked  tone.  "  Oh,  my  poor  Launce,  how  could  any 
one  have  been  so  cruel?  Come  with  me  here  a  moment,  and  sit  down. 
It  has  given  you  quite  a  turn,  I  can  see.  Jack  and  Doctor  Higgenbot- 
harn  are  with  Dorothea.  She  has  opened  her  eyes.  She  was  only 
stunned,  and  her  head  is  rather  badly  cut." 

"  I  thought  it  was  all  over  vith  her — and  with  me  too!"  returned 
Lancelot,  and  the  tears  came  into  Mrs.  Chudleigh's  eyes  at  his  tone. 

"  No,  no,  Launce,  we  hope  that  she  is  not  badly  iniurcd  after  all. 
How  I  must  go  back.  Mrs.  Fen  wick  and  Sybil  are  there.  I  heard 


OITLY    0  I'SS. 

your  wheeiS  a.,.!  <,ame  out  lv. CMU-C  T  did  not  wish  you  to  be  fright' 
hut  it  serins  that  I  was  too  late.     1  will  come  back  to  you  when  1 » 
.vnbotham  is  gone,"  but  Launcelot  detained  her. 
'diuli'llii,  I  must  see  Dorothea." 

"  So  you  shall,  dear — the  moment  Doctor  Higgenhotham  h 
you  shall  see  her.  even  if  she  can  not  speak  to  you.     Let  me  go,  Laum- 
the  motner  will  he  wanted,"  and  then  he  let  her  leave  him. 

"  What  a  fool  I  was  to  believe  it!"  he  thought,  as  he  walked  up 
down  the  room  to  recover  himself.     "It  was  the  suddenness  of  i 
blow  staggered  me;  but  1  have  once  in  my  life  known  what  is  c 
the  bitterness  of  death,  and  I  feared  I  was  to  experience  it  again; 
then  he  put  his  hand  to  his  forehead,  and  was  surprised  to  find  ho\ 
and  damp  it  was.     "  I  am  shaken  all  over,"  he  muttered;  "  I  don't 
member  ever  feeling  quite  so  bad  before;"  and  then  he  poured  on 
water  and  drank  it,  aud  stood  by  the  window  inhaling  the  fresh  e\ •< 
air,  and  then  he  began  to  feel  more  like  himself.    "  I  might  h 
God's  goodness,"  he  thought,  remorsefully.     "  I  need  not  have  bi 
ready  to  believe  the  worst." 

But  it  seemed  a  long  time  before  his  step-mother  came  back  to  him. 
She  came  in  looking  flushed  and  anxious. 

"I  am  so  sorry  to  have  kept  you  so  long  in  suspense,  Launce,"  she 
began,  "  but  Doctor  Higgenbothani  has  only  this  moment  gone.     lie 
has  attended  to  the  cuts,  and  I  am  thankful  to  say  there  is  no  other  in- 
jury; but  she  is  to  be  left  very  quiet,  and  you  must  not  talk  to  her,  for 
after  such  an  accident — "  but  Mrs.  Chudleigh  prudently    forbore  to 
finish  her  speech,  for  Dr.  Hggenbotham's  stringent  orders  had  raided  a 
margin  of  doubt  in  her  own  mind,  but  she  need  not  make  Lamm 
sharer  in  her  own  uneasiness.     "  She  is  to  be  carried  up  to  her  room, 
and  then  Sybil  and  I  will  help  her  to  bed,  so  you  must  only  stay 
minute." 

"  Very  well,"  he  returned,  quite  quietly,  for  he  had  himself  in  hand 
now,  and  he  followed  his  step-mother  into  the  drawing-room.     "  Here 
unce,  my  darling!"  he  heard  Jack  say  as  they  entered. 

Launcelot  felt  the  old  choking  sensation  come  back  when  he 
Jack's  face;  its  ruddy  complexion  had  perceptibly  paled,  but  h' 
l>ent  on  self-control. 

"Dorothea,"  he  said,  softly,  kneeling  down  by  the  couch,  an-. 
opened  her  eyes  at  once  and  smiled  at  him.     Her  face  was  very  white, 
and  the  long  plaits  of  her  fair  hair  had  been  uncoiled  to  allow  of  the 
wound  being  dressed,  and  lay  on  her  dark  riding-habit. 

Laimcelot  tried  to  smile  back  at  her,  but  she  saw  at  once  ho 
he  was. 

"  Please  don't  look  like  that,  Launcelot,"  she  whispered.     "  Indeed 
I  am  not  so  T«ry  much  hurt;  it  was  far  worse  for  father  having  ; 
it  all."     But  the  faintuess  of  her  voice  alarmed  Launcelot,  and 
membered  that  he  was  not  to  talk  to  her.     "  You  must  not  tiouhlo 
about  any  of  us,"  he  replied,  gently;  "  you  must  think  only  of  y<» 
Dorothea,  and  about  getting  well.     Now    Doctor  Iliggenbothain 
you  are  to  be  quiet,  and  I  am  going  to  follow  his  orders  an-i 

to/' 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  said,  holding  his  hand  as  he  would  have  lifted  her. 
"  you  must  let  father  do  that.  He  is  so  big  and  strong  that  he  will  not 
feel  my  weight."  But  Launcelot  persisted. 

"I;  loo,"  lie  returned,  and  she  knew  by  his  tone  that  he 

meant  to  have  his  way.  But  as  lie  laid  her  down  on  her  own  couch  up- 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  319 

Btairs  one  of  the  long  plaits  floated  past  him,  and  Dorothea's  color  rose 
a  little  as  she  saw  him  touch  it  with  his  lips.  Their  eyes  met,  and  he 
kissed  her  almost  passionately. 

"  My  little  blessing,"  he  whispered,  "  get  well  for  me,  for  I  cun  not 
do  without  you!"  and  then  he  left  her  to  his  step-mother. 

"  I  think  Launce  loves  me  more  than  he  used,"  thought  Dorothea,  as 


that  way, 

blessing?"     "  What  a  .dear  name!"  she  thought,  and  indeed  that  was 
her  one  wish — to  be  his"  blessing. 

Dorothea  lay  quite  happily  looking  out  at  the  evening  sky,  while 
Launcelot  and  Jack  strolled  to  the  terrace. 

"  How  did  it  happen,  Jack?"  he  asked,  as  soon  as  he  found  himself 
alone  with  his  friend. 

"  It  was  coming  up  Overton  Rise,"  returned  Jack,  hoarsely.  "  They 
had  got  the  steam-roller  at  work.  I  told  Dossie  to  keep  Zoe  quiet,  for 
she  seemed  a  bit  fresh,  and  then,  all  at  once,  as  I  was  speaking,  the  mare 
reared  and  seemed  to  curvet  across  the  road.  And  then  she  r 
again,  and  overbalanced,  and  before  I  could  get  to  them  there  was  my 
little  girl  on  the  ground,  and  Zoe's  heels  within  an  inch  of  her!  And 
the  new  flint  stones  were  down,  and  Dr.  Higgenbotham  says  that  a 
quarter  of  an  inch  deeper — but  there,  I  can't  talk  of  it.  I  might  have 
seen  my  little  girl  killed  before  my  eyes,  and  for  a  minute  or  two  I 
thought  she  was  dead.  I  think  those  few  minutes  made  an  old  man  of 
me,"  finished  Jack,  with  a  break  in  his  voice. 

"  Yes,  and  you  brought  her  home?" 

"  There  was  a  cab  waiting  at  some  house,  and  I  got  into  that  with 
Dossie.  But  I  thought  even  that  short  drive  would  never  come  to  an 
end,  and  she  did  not  open  her  eyes  once,  but  just  lay  across  my  knee,  like 
— oh,  confound  it,  I  shall  never  get  it  out  of  my  mind!" 

'*  Let  us  talk  of  something  else,  Jack." 

*'  There  was  a  bad  scalp  wound,  and  another  cut,"  went  on  Jack,  dis- 
regarding this;  "  that  is  why  we  are  to  keep  her  so  quiet.  Delia  says 
I  am  only  to  wish  her  good-night.  It  is  hard  on  you  too,  Launce;  I 
could  see  how  cut  up  you  were,  but,  please  God,  we  shall  have  Dossie 
right  again." 

"  Amen,"  returned  Launcelot;  and  then  again  he  made  an  ineffectual 
attempt  to  divert  Jack's  thoughts.  He  had  to  give  it  up  at  last.  Jack 
could  not  talk  coherently  on  any  subject;  his  conversation  consisted  of 
snatches  of  painful  recollection,  with  interjections  of  thankfulness,  and 
nervous  fears  of  future  consequences.  It  was  a  relief  to  Launcelot  to 
leave  him  and  indulge  in  a  solitary  stroll  across  the  common;  it  was  re- 
freshing to  be  alone  with  his  own  thoughts,  and  he  mused  happily  over 
his  many  mercies.  "At  least  I  have  learned  something  to-day,"  he 
said  to  himself  as  he  paced  under  the  dark  starry  sky.  "I  have  learned 
how  much  I  love  Dorothea,  and  that  she  is  necessary  to  my  happiness. 
I  would  not  change  her  for  any  woman, ' '  and  Launcelot  knew  in  his 
heart  that  he  spoke  the  truth. 

Jack  and  he  had  rather  a  trying  time  of  it  for  the  next  week  or  two. 
Dorothea  had  had  a  severe  shock  and  the  head  wound  gave  grave  cause 
for  anxiety;  quiet  and  freedom  from  all  excitement  were  absolutely 
necessary. 

Jack's  visits  to  the  sick-room  were  severely  curtailed,  and  all  conver- 
sation strictly  forbidden;  while  Launcelot  wns  not  suffered  t- 


320  OmY   THE    GOVERNESS. 

threshold,  and  could  only  send  -mitten  messages  with  the  flowers  that 
greeted  Dorothea  every  morning. 

Launcelot  grumbled  pretty  freely  whenever  his  step-mother  gave  him 
an  opportunity  of  airing  his  grievances. 

"Doctor  Higgeubotham  is  an  old  woman!"  he  once  said,  quite 
angrily;  "  why  did  you  not  have  in  Maxwell?  I  don't  believe  he  would 
have  forbidden  my  visits;  you  know  yourself,  Madella,  how  quiet  I  run 
be  in  a  sick-room.  Miss  Thorpe  said  this  morning  that  it  was  too  bud 
to  exclude  me." 

"It  is  hard,  Launce,"  replied  his  step-mother,  sympathetically. 
"  Yes,  I  know  how  quiet  you  can  be,  but  the  mere  pleasure  of  seeing 
you  would  excite  Dorothea.  Why,  she  flushes  up  every  time  she  hears 
your  footstep,  and  she  detects  it  in  a  moment.  You  must  be  patient  for 
a  day  or  two  longer,  and,  after  that,  Doctor  Higgenbotham  says  there 
will  be  no  risk;  she  is  really  getting  on  very  nicely,"  and  after  this 
Launcelot  held  his  peace. 

But  when  at  last  he  saw  her,  he  owned  that  his  step-mother  had  been 
wise  in  her  treatment.  Dorothea  looked  very  fragile  and  delicate;  she 
had  not  regained  her  usual  coloring,  and  though  she  pronounced  hsr- 
self  quite  well,  she  was  evidently  far  from  strong. 

Launcelot  found  her  in  the  "  mother's  room,"  in  a  big  easy-chair  by 
the  open  window.  She  wore  a  loose  white  tea-gown,  and  Sybil  had 
brushed  back  her  hair  and  tied  it  with  a  ribbon,  and  this  gave  her  a 
childish  look,  but  he  thought  he  had  never  seen  her  look  so  sweet. 

"  Why,  Dorothea,  you  remind  me  of  the  celebrated  Doll's  dress  maker 
in  her  garden  bower,"  she  said,  sitting  down  beside  her,  and  Dorothea 
smiled. 

"I  could  not  bear  my  hair  dressed,"  she  said,  quietly,  "but  the 
wound  has  healed  now.  Father  says  he  likes  it  best  because  I  remind 
him  of,  the  old  Dossie,  but  it  makes  me  look  too  young." 

"  You  must  not  grow  any  older,"  he  returned,  seriously;  "  to  me 
you  are  just  perfect."  And  that  day  he  made  her  a  great  many  pretty 
speeches. 

But  they  did  not  have  much  conversation  together,  and  more  than  a 
week  passed  before  Dorothea  came  among  them  again  and  spoke  of  go- 
ing back  to  the  cottage.  This  gave  Launcelot  the  opportunity  he 
wanted. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "you  may  go  back  to  the  cottage  if  you  think 
proper,  but  the  question  is  how  soon  can  you  be  ready  for  me?  Paul- 
ine took  two  months  for  her  preparations,  but  I  should  think  six  weeks 
ample  time."  And  to  his  delight,  she  did  not  contradict  this  state- 
ment. 

"  You  must  ask  Aunt  Delia,"  she  said,  shyly.  '  If  you  are  ready 
forme,  Launcelot,  I  must  not  keep  you  waiting."  Then  he  thanked 
her  very  gratefully. 

But  he  was  unusually  thoughtful  that  morning,  and  Dorothea  looked 
at  him  wistfully  once  or  twice  as  though  she  would  question  the  reason 
of  his  gravity,  and  at  last  she  said,  gently — 

"  Am  I  disappointing  you  in  anything,  Launcelot?  Is  there  any- 
thing else  you  wish  me  to  do?" 

"  .No,  dear,"  he  returned,  quietly,  "  but  it  was  not  of  our  marriage  1 
was  thinking  just  then,  but  of  something  that  was  troubling  me  a  little. 
Dorothea,  you  are  very  trusting;  you  do  not  take  advantage  of  your 
position  to  ask  me  awkward  questions." 


OKLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  321 

"  How  do  you  mean?"  she  asked,  and  her  lovely  eyes  had  a  shade  of 
anxiety  in  them.  "  Is  it  about  the  past  you  are  thinking?" 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  in  a  relieved  tone.  "  Most  girls  would  ask  a  man 
questions— if  he  has  been  in  love  before,  and  if  any  woman  has  ever 
been  as  dear  to  him,  oh,  and  a  hundred  such  questions.  But  you  have 
never  put  one." 

"  Because  I  had  no  need,"  she  returned;  but  now  the  shadow  lav 
deep  in  her  eyes,  "  I  knew  all  about  it,  Launcelot.  I  was  only  a  child  " 
— as  he  started  and  looked  at  her — "  but  I  was  thoughtful  for  my  years, 
and  I  was  so  fond  of  you  that  the  change  in  you  could  not  escape  me. 
No  one  told  me  anything,  and  I  would  have  died  sooner  than  speak  to 
any  one,  but  in  my  own  little  way  I  put  things  together." 

"  And  you  knew  about  Miss  Rossiter?"  in  an  incredulous  voice. 

"  Yes,  so  you  need  not  tell  me.  Child  as  I  was,  I  knew  you  wert 
suffering,  and  often  I  cried  myself  to  sleep  because  my  Mr.  Lance  wai 
so  unhappy.  I  don't  think  I  ever  reasoned  the  matter  out  in  my  mind, 
I  was  too  young;  but  I  saw  that  there  was  a  grievous  mistake  that  you 
were  trying  to  set  right,  and  that  you  were  in  heavy  trouble.  Oh,  how 
I  longed  to  comfort  you !  I  remember  my  nightly  prayer  for  you  then. ' ' 

"  Tell  it  to  me."  he  said,  holding  her  hands.  "  It  will  do  me  good 
even  now,  Dorothea."  But  she  hesitated  until  he  said  again,  "  Please 
tell  it  to  me." 

"  I  used  to  say,"  she  whispered,  *  Oh,  dear  Lord,  keep  Mr.  Lance, 
as  good  as  he  is  now,  and  make  him  a  little  less  unhappy;  and  when  I 
grow  up  teach  me  how  to  be  a  comfort  to  him.'  " 

"  I  think  the  prayer  has  been  answered,  my  darling!"  but  she  could 
see  he  was  much  affected.  "  How  little  one  is  conscious  of  one's  bless- 
ings! I  was  in  bitter  trouble  because  I  thought  my  heart's  affection 
was  wasted,  mysteriously  and  absolutely  wasted— that  I  was  battling 
alone — and  all  the  time  a  little  child  was  praying  beside  me;"  and  then 
he  added,  softly,  "  the  little  child  that  was  to  be  my  wife." 

Dorothea  was  silent  for  a  minute,  and  then  she  said,  very  quietly — 

"It  is  strange  how  even  then  I  felt  as  though  I  belonged  to  you.  I 
obeyed  you  almost  as  I  obeyed  father.  Launcelot,  have  you  noticed 
how  much  older  father  has  looked  lately?  I  think  his  hard  fife  has  tried 
him,  for  he  is  not  really  old." 

"He  is  only  four  or  five  years  older  than  your  humble  servant,"  re- 
turned Launcelot;  "  but  there  is  no  accounting  for  a  man's  looks.  Your 
father  is  big,  and  has  a  powerful  frame,  but  I  am  strong  and  wiry;" 
but  he  forbore  to  add  that  he  thought,  humanly  speaking,  that  his  own 
lease  of  life  would  be  longer  than  Jack's. 

Strange  to  say,  Jack  spoke  a  word  on  that  very  subject  the  same  even- 
ing. They  had.  been  sitting  with  Dorothea  until  Mrs.  Chudleigh  had 
said  that  her  patient  had  talked  enough  and  must  go  to  bed,  and  then 
Jack  had  suggested  the  terrace;  he  had  taken  a  fancy  to  smoke  his  pipe 
there.  He  liked  the  wide  stretch  of  heath  and  the  twinkling  lights  from 
the  village,  it  gave  him  a  sense  of  space  and  freedom.  As  they  stood 
together  in  the  faint  glimmering  light,  for  the  moon  had  not  yet  risen, 
and  they  could  hardly  see  each  other's  faces,  Launcelot  said,  rathe* 
abruptly — 

"  I  hope  our  arrangements  meet  with  your  approval,  Jack— that  you 
do  not  think  that  I  have  fixed  too  early  a  day  for  our  marriage?" 

"No,"  he  said,  slowly;  "Dorothea  will  be  nineteen.  That  was 
Pen's  age.  I  shall  be  willing  to  give  her  to  you  now.  I  have  had  a 
happy  year  with  my  little  girl,  the  happiest  in  my  life,  I  think,  except 

11  ,    -a*—- 


OtfLY    TTTE 


that  first  year  when  Pen  came  to  mo—  Imt  wo  had  our  troubles  even 
then.  I  don't  know  how  it,  is,  L'lunrc.  but  a  man  can't  drag  a  woman 
down  to  poverty  without  suU'cring  I'  or  it." 

"  And  j'ou  will  try  to  settle  in  comfortably  at  the  Witch  • 
"  Why,  of  course,  I  shall  be  comfortable  under  any  roof  that  shelters 
Dossie.  *  You  are  a  good  fellow,  Launce,  and  will  make  my  liti 
happy.  I  know,  but  sometimes  I  think  even  you  who  are  going 
her  husband  do  not  know  what  Dossie  is  to  me.    I  don't  seem  to  have 
a  wish  that  is  not  connected  with  her.    It  has  been  so  all  along." 
"  I  think  I  do  know  it,  Jack." 

iiietimes  I  think  I  ought  to  stop  on  alone  at  the  cottage,  anti  not 
be  in  your  way,  but  I  know  Dossie  would  not  hear  of  it.     But,  L.. 
I  sha'n't  trouble  either  her  or  you  long;  there  is  a  flaw  in  the  machinery, 
and  I  know  I  shall  never  make  an  old  man." 

"  Xonsense,  Jack!  you  are  scarcely  forty-five.     Why,  you  are  in  tho 
prime  of  life;   you  could  marry  again  to-morrow.     Many  a  w 
would  be  glad  to  s&y  yes  to  a  fine  fellow  like  you." 

"  I  should  never  put  another  woman  in  Pen's  place,"  returned  Jack, 
simpty.  "  I  know  better  than  I  used,  and  Dossie  has  taught  me  a  lot 
of  things,  and  I  feel  sure  now  that  Pen  and  I  shall  meet  again.  I  think 
a  great  deal  about  her,  and  I  fancy  to  myself  how  pleased  she  will  look 
when  I  tell  her  her  place  has  never  been  taken.  She  always  believed  in 
me,  did  Pen,  and  I  don't  want  to  disappoint  her.'* 
"  Of  course;  I  see  what  you  mean." 

"  I  don't  think  it  will  be  many  years  before  I  see  her  and  the  boys 
again.  I  am  not  speaking  without  book,  and  I  know  where  the  mis- 
chief lies."  And  then  he  added  a  word  or  two,  and  Launcelot  knew 
that  he  was  speaking  the  truth,  and  that  Jack  would  never  make  an  old 
man.  "  That  is  why  I  wanted  my  little  girl  to  myself  for  a  bit:"  went 
on  Jack,  cheerfully.  "  I  am  quite  content  to  take  things  as  they  come, 
and  it  won't  trouble  me  to  leave  Dossie,  for  I  know  she  will  be  safe  with 
you.  Not  that  I  need  talk  of  dying  yet,  for  Carrick  says  I  may  liva 
for  years;  but  when  it  comes  Dossie  will  not  be  alone." 
"  Jack,  you  do  not  wish  her  to  know  what  you  have  just  told  me." 
"  Xo:  indeed;  that  is  between  you  and  me.  We  are  old  comrades, 
Launce;  even  Delia  must  not  know;  and  as  for  my  little  sunbeam,  I 
1  not  sadden  her  for  worlds.  I  am  not  a  bit  down  about  it;  I  was 
never  afraid  of  death,  but  I  should  like  to  know  things  a  little  better, 
that  was  why  I  was  glad  to  have  Carrick's  opinion,  and  please  God  1 
shall  see  your  children  and  hers  before  I  lie  down  beside  Pen.'* 

•r'old  Jack!"  thought  Launcelot,  as  he  recalled  this  conversation 
somewhat  sorrowfully.     "  Yet  why  do  I  say  poor?  are  old  age  and  tho 
H!OW  dcca"y  of  one's  faculties  such  unmixed  blessings  that  I  should  pity 
:oug  man  likely  to  be  taken  in  his  prime?    Jack  is  learnii 

;  he  has  begun  late,  and  he  is  not  an  apt  scholar,  rather 
JK!  clumsy  perhaps,  but  the  Master  is  merciful.    Jack  will  have 
time  to  get  his  task  perfect,  or  else  he  will  be  set  with  the  little  ones  to 
it  more  quickly  under  the  eyes  of  the  Divine  Teacher,  in  the 
•  and  better  school.     '  In  My  Father's  house  are  many  nmn>: 
it   there  be  one  set  apart  for  simple  souls  who  have  not  ri. 
!  their  life's  lesson,  who  in  their  dullness  made  imV 
1  and  tried  again,  and  then  lost  courage,  for  even  their  fellous 
•L-t  that  they  had  failed,  but  it  may  be  the  Master  knew  othn 
and  called  them  up  to  Him  for  clearer  light  and  teaching?"  thought 


ONLY    THE    GOVERNESS.  323 

It  was  only  last  year  that  Launcelot  Ckudleigli  found  that  sketch  of 
Dossie  as  a  child  and  carried  it  into  his  wife's  room.  They  had  been 
married  some  months  then.  Jack  was  painting  in  the  window  and 
Dorothea  was  sitting  beside  him  working — she  generally  spent  her  morn- 
ings in  her  husband's  studio,  but  now  and  then  Jack  put  in  a  plea  for 
her  company  and  was  never  refused,  in  spite  of  Launcelot's  grumbling. 

"  Look  what  I  have  found!"  he  exclaimed,  flourishing  the  sketch  be- 
fore Dorothea's  eyes.  Jack  came  round  to  look  at  it,  but  soon  went 
back  to  his  work,  for  the  companion  sketch,  worn  and  discolored,  lay 
with  all  Dossie's  letters  in  a  drawer  upstairs.  But  Dorothea  took  it  out 
of  her  husband's  hand  and  regarded  it  gravely. 

"  What  a  sad  little  child!"  she  said.     "  Was  I  ever  like  that,  Lance?" 

"  You  are  very  like  it  now,"  he  returned,  looking  at  her  critically, 
"  but  you  have  grown  much  prettier,  Dorothea;  you  know  I  am  alwayi 
telling  you  so." 

"  I  know  you  are  a  flatterer,  Lance,"  she  replied,  gently,  and  then 
they  both  looked  at  the  sketch  again. 

Dossie's  large  wistful  eyes  seemed  to  look  back  at  them  in  a  sort  of 
wondering  perplexity. 

"  Poor  little  thing!"  said  Dorothea.  "  That  was  when  father  went 
away.  Oh,  how  unhappy  I  was!" 

"  JBut  you  had  Lance  even  then,  my  darling,"  observed  Jack,  in  his 
tender  voice. 

"  Yes,  but  he  was  not  all  that  he  is  to  me  now,"  she  replied,  and  aa 
she  spoke  she  crept  a  little  closer  to  her  husband's  side. 

Launcelot  looked  at  her  fondly. 

"  You  are  happier  now  than  you  were  then,  Dorothea?"  and  though 
Dorothea  only  smiled  and  said  "  Yes,"  in  her  tranquil  way,  Launcelot 
was  perfectly  satisfied  with  her  answer.  His  wife  was  not  a  woman  o€ 
many  words,  but  her  smile  was  sufficiently  eloquent. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 
-  •  t 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


2Mpr'59Aj 

RjiC'D  LO 

APR    9  1959 

nn    f\  -• 

ffl  Oi  '989 

J'JL  °  5  1959 

,"l     ,     r    f    ]       l\       ~          1(">ri       r 

•••   ,-  «/  .      '.;  .,- 

AUTO  DISC 

APR  ?  • 

GIRCULATIO 

LD  21A-50/ 
(6889slO)-l 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


YB  73195 
U.C.  BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


00208^752 


961714 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


